Rosaline
by Kurissyma san Tybalt
Summary: Emily's darker side brings back memories of JJ's sister's suicide. Trigger warnings for self harm and mentions of suicide; NO character death. JJxEmily. Originally a oneshot, but now being extended to involve a case (and, of course, more fluff).
1. Chapter 1

When I mention Ros I get respectful silence. I understand that—especially from the team. We know better than to step into each others lives uninvited and we are wary of overstepping bounds. But it was different when Emily arrived. Our histories were new to her: tomes on dusty tomes, which we revealed only into riddles, casual remarks, and coffee conversations. I thought that, by staring while the others looked away, Emily only meant to catch up—to read as far into me as she could while I was open in front of her, before the window of opportunity was closed again. I don't talk about my sister's suicide a lot.

Almost a month passed from that day before I first saw the scratches on her wrist. A new watch was making her skin itch—oh, she knew it was bad to scratch, but her favourite timepiece had stopped unexpectedly and she'd picked up another of the cheap drugstore variety. It must be made of nickel. I didn't think her watch had changed, but then, who knew? I'd noticed her wearing one, but I couldn't say for certain it wasn't a different one. To be honest, I found her attractive—if I got a chance, there were other parts of her I studied first.

God, it's hard to think that now. Because you know in retrospect, don't you? You know it's been goddamn obvious all along and there's no excuse for missing it. I missed it twice. First with Ros, then with Emily. If I'd ever torn my stupid lovestruck eyes from her lips, her neck, or wherever else, and just taken one good look at her wrist I would have realised that it was more than a few scratches. But of course, I wanted to believe her—just like I'd wanted to believe every lie Ros ever told me about her own scars. The sleeve that had slipped upwards was rolled back down, and my chance was gone.

Once, a few months before Rosaline died, I caught her with some friends under the bleachers. She and her friends would meet there sometimes, as all teenagers did, to talk about boys and make-up and other scandalous things, and I—Ros's baby sister—was most certainly not welcome. Sometimes there were boys with them, but that day it was just Ros and a few girlfriends. She was messing with her sleeve the same way Emily did, and I heard her whine, "It's the stupid cat, guys! It hates me!" Her friends all laughed. Apparently she was notorious with animals, to her friends at least. She hadn't counted on me coming up behind her.

"What cat?" I asked dumbly.

"_Our_ cat, you doofus!"

I couldn't comprehend the anger in Ros's tone as she hissed at me to go home and leave her alone. She had roughly escorted me out of sight before I had a chance to reveal to her friends that we'd never owned a cat.

For God's sake, if only I could've made Ros's friends a little more suspicious about the marks on her arms. For years I lay awake at night thinking how I'd failed her; imagining her lying awake too, after that day, crying and wishing for someone to realise what it all meant, thinking about how close I'd come. But how could I have guessed when she always seemed so perfect? When I admired her so much? And when it was Emily, well what then? She wasn't a teenager, and she was one of the most well put together people I knew. _I guess I'm just good at comparmentalising_, she'd said. Jesus, Em. Yeah. I wish you weren't.

So I honestly can't say what stroke of idiocy made me ask, weeks later, when I glimpsed for a moment the scratches multiplying on Emily's wrist, "Do you have a cat or something?"

Maybe I was desperate for the lie to be true this time, but Emily seized upon the way out I had offered her, and her quickness was telling enough.

"It's my neighbours," she apologized, rapidly tugging down the sleeve that had been nudged upward as she worked.

I baulked as silence fell between us. What next? I fought the urge to walk up behind her, grab her arm, and roll up her sleeve against her will without ever having to see her face or explain why. Instead I found myself hedging, "The same thing… always seemed to happen to my sister."

I was keen to the way Emily froze at the mention of Ros—I knew she remembered. She froze, and then glanced slowly, incrementally, to each side, barely moving her head at all. I knew she was checking that she and I were alone in the evidence room—which we were. The local PD staff had cleared off to give us space to work and the rest of the team were out in the field.

"Jennifer…"

I didn't have to be a profiler to know that her use of my full name meant I was getting in close to her, and that this was serious. I couldn't let her slide away with stock excuses the way Ros had. And we couldn't do this from opposite ends of the table either, with evidence stacked up between us. Biting my lip, I stood, hoping not to startle her back into herself. I lifted, not dragged, my chair beside hers and lowered it as quietly as I could. The air in the room, which had been stifling before, seemed to stagnate further. Emily barely breathed, stiff with the exertion of portraying so little emotion. Her face was a blank to me.

"Emily," I tried to keep my voice as low and soothing as possible—this was supposed to be what I was good at, wasn't it? But I wasn't, not with her. "I'm really sorry to do this, but I'm going to roll up your sleeve, okay?"

Emily's eyes stared straight ahead and her lips formed a perfect line, but her cheeks had begun to quiver. You can't control everything. Gently I lifted my hand to turn her face toward mine. I'd pulled myself close before—our knees touched as she turned. My hand cupped her soft white cheek and I tried to make that small gesture say everything I wanted it to. What I really wanted was to throw my arms around her and hold her tight, to wipe away all the tears she wouldn't let fall, but I knew that that would be too much, too fast. Still, Emily yielded. Her eyes, which had been so determinedly averted, now met mine straight on, and I was both relieved and distraught to find defeat written in them. It wasn't what I wanted at all.

I didn't dare ask again if it was all right, and I didn't want to give anyone a chance to walk in either. So, giving Emily's dry cheek a last delicate stroke with my thumb, I dropped that hand to hold hers, while my other slid back the long sleeve of her blouse. I tried not to register her flinch.

The scratches on Emily's wrist were superficial, as they had been with my sister—the sort you _can_ blame on a cheap watch or a disgruntled cat. Further up her arm, what I hadn't seen, were long gashes at various stages of healing, disappearing into a thin gauze bandage that presumably covered the newest additions.

Still Emily neither spoke nor cried. I expected she didn't think she could do one without inviting the other, and wanted to avoid tears at all costs. Repeatedly her eyes moved to the door—ajar. I rolled her sleeve back down and placed my hand over it.

"You're taking care of them. That's good," I told her, hardly trusting my own voice. "Em, you know I have to ask if you're hurting yourself with a mind to—you know. To kill yourself."

Emily briefly resembled herself at that comment. A look of what might have been construed as annoyance, but what was more probably bravado, crossed her face. "I have a gun, JJ. If I wanted to kill myself—" That bravado faltered here, along with her voice. "Anyway," she said. "I'm not trying to…" The words _right now_ were unspoken but permeated the air between us.

I tried to push on regardless of what I felt. "I'm not going to ask you to talk about it today—we've got work to do, and I'll try to leave you alone for a while. But after this case—"

"I know."

Her tone was dismissive.

"Do you, though, Em? Do you understand?" My hand on her wrist dipped to her hand and clung tighter than I intended. "This isn't okay-" Goddammit. My voice had broken. Tears accumulated, ready to fall at any second. "I… I know what this does to people. I…"

"I know."

"I should— I'm supposed to tell Hotch— Fuck, Emily, you carry a _weapon_. You can't be out in the field and have the team not know if you're—"

Finally emotion began to rise in Emily's voice and her other hand came to sandwich mine, clutching as tightly as mine was. "Jayj, I've worked hard for this!"

"I know. Just—"

"I know. Your sister—"

"_No_." I shook my head, begging her to see. "Not Ros, Em. You." Although I'd meant to move away, I found myself folding her into my arms, and she didn't resist. "Emily, my sister's been dead for a long time. It's you I'm afraid to lose. Jesus… I've been afraid of that for a while now, but—"

"I don't… make it easy for people to worry about me, Jen."

I had no more words, but Emily's arms lifting to return my embrace were enough. I didn't hear or see her cry, but I began to feel wetness pressing into my shoulder where her cheek rested, and that prompted my own tears to fall—hard. Only when both of our tears had been exhausted did I pull back enough to look into her clear eyes. They were wet but more open now, accessible. Emily looked at me straight on, her hands loosely grasping my biceps. And her eyes—those gorgeous eyes, which threatened, promised, to remove all my fears and all my restraint at once… Her eyes seemed to drop to my lips. I saw my name move on her own lips before I realised that my own eyes had done the same. Twice, softly, she said my name. I watched through my eyelashes, leaned in unconsciously, and felt her chest lightly brush mine. I yearned to close the gap between us and kiss her, make sure she was really, truly here, alive and all right.

Yet I knew I was the only one aware of Emily's position. And although I also knew I needed to tell someone, I already feared that I wouldn't, which meant that we would have to be on the best possible terms. She couldn't have another reason to avoid me - had to trust me. So instead I leaned my forehead against hers, took a deep breath in, and withdrew.

"Let's get back to work."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN/ Apparently this isn't a oneshot after all. More gratuitous hurt/comfort flavoured romance for y'all!**

**Chapter 2**

"There's something I never told you."

It had been a week since Emily and I last talked outside of a professional setting. Inviting her to dinner at my house was a transparent ploy to remedy this, and now I stood pouring wine in the kitchen with my back to her. I could hear her shifting on the couch in the next room.

"What?" she called in, and her tone was deceptively casual.

It struck as we wrapped up the case just how normal Emily both looked and sounded. At first it surprised me. But then I remembered that some of her wounds had been new, yes, but more were scars, presumably from long ago. The Emily I knew and loved and laughed with had been wearing those scars a long time—she hadn't changed just because I'd found out about them. There was no reason to expect her to be fragile or upset when she worked as well as ever.

I picked up our glasses and brought them into the sitting room, passing one over as I sat beside her.

"Back then, with Doyle—when he… and you died…"

Emily ran a finger up around the rim of her glass but didn't drink. Her eyes considered me fully.

It was hard to release the words with her eyes on me. They clung in my throat like infants, begging not to leave a safe place. "I talked to Morgan afterwards," I admitted. "He told me when he found you, you wanted him to let you go—die."

Emily's eyes on mine didn't falter but she took a deep sip of her wine now and her hand briefly rose to brush my arm before falling to rest on her thigh. "That was a long time ago," she reminded me smoothly. "I'd been on edge for so long, I was exhausted."

Her calmness only made me more anxious, although I tried to hide it. "There's a difference between being exhausted and suicidal." _Obviously_, I thought, but Emily only hummed softly.

"Perhaps there's a finer line between the two than you think," she mused. Then she smiled at me, still with that slow, deliberate air of calm. "JJ, I'm not suicidal. I have been, but I'm not now."

"When were you? Did I—" Why was I the incoherent one? "Did I know you then?"

"The first time I was fifteen, in Italy."

"Fifteen," I whispered redundantly.

Emily's hand returned to my elbow, stroking absently with her thumb. Now I took a gulp of wine.

"Tell me," I begged, but I think I knew she wouldn't.

"JJ, I'm not fifteen and I'm not suicidal anymore."

"But you're hurting yourself, Em."

Her fingers at my elbow plucked and twisted the rolled up sleeve of my cardigan. It seemed to be a contemplative gesture rather than a nervous one, but it wound me up tight. I bent forward to set my glass down, knowing the movement would shake her off. It did and she leaned back.

"It relieves the pressure, makes it easier to be okay," she explained, her tone a little more removed as she glanced over my shoulder into the kitchen.

"You mean it makes it easier for you to act like you're okay," I countered, but she was already standing up.

"Are we going to eat?" she asked, a little brusquely. Then she softened. "Let's cook something. We can't just sit and talk like this. It'll make us both want to kill ourselves." She smiled, assuring me she was joking, and I tried to return it.

"I was just going to put on some pasta," I said, following her lead into the kitchen as she opened the fridge and began to check cupboards.

"I've a better idea," she said, winking over her shoulder.

Smirking, I humoured her. "Better than pasta?"

"Oh, Jennifer," Emily sighed, causing a shiver to run through me. "You just wait. I might yet rock your world."

"What can I do?" I asked.

Emily's grinned approvingly. "Well, I'd ask you to chop onions, but I think it's a bit early for tears, so why don't you start with carrots?"

"What are we making?"

"It's a family recipe," Emily replied, laughing at the disbelief on my face. "No, really—it is! Just not my family's! The housekeeper's, actually. I think my mother still has her toast brought to her in the mornings."

"Sounds ideal," I mused, taking the vegetables Emily passed to me and rinsing them before pulling out the chopping board.

"Oh Jen, only let me stay the night and you'll find I can do _much_ better than toast!" Her laugh tinkled from across the kitchen and she was right, it was easier to talk while our hands were occupied, our backs to each other as she worked on the opposite bench. It was also, apparently, easier to flirt, which was new. And not entirely unwelcome.

"So… carrots, and…" I glanced over to see what she was doing, "…Sweet potato? Is that it?"

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Emily chastised, and now she rolled up her sleeves to the elbow as she worked. She did it casually, but I could see that her smile had become strained; her laugh was a little too loud. It was a deliberate display of openness, of honesty, and I appreciated it immensely.

It crossed my mind then to turn around, to walk up behind her and put my arms around her waist. I imagined leaning my head into her back, closing my eyes, and just quietly feeling her—her warm, solid presence, her every breath. The thought caused me to blush lightly and I was glad that only the carrots saw. Emily's back remained turned.

For a while we worked in silence, me following Emily's directions, called periodically across the room. Occasionally we shared a glance or a joke and then continued on. But having placed an admittedly perfect looking pair of potpies in the oven, it was she who came up behind me as I washed my hands at the sink.

I breathed in slowly as I felt her arms come around me, her hands linking in front of my stomach as I had imagined doing to her. I dried my own hands on a dishtowel and placed them over hers, leaning my head back and to the side as her chin rested on my shoulder.

"The pies'll be 45 minutes in the oven," she said, and her breath tickled my skin. I could smell the wine on her, but knew she hadn't had much.

"And they'll be amazing, will they?" I asked, a little teasingly, mostly breathlessly.

"I promised a world-rocking experience, didn't I?"

Smiling, I allowed myself to look down, to really see her scarred arms, bravely bared, for the second time. It was easier now that I didn't have to see her face as well, and it helped that we were both calmer tonight too. Keeping one hand over both of hers, linked around my waist, I let the other brush lightly along her left forearm, avoiding anything that hadn't fully healed. The bandage just above her elbow remained from last week, I steered clear of that. Gently I explored all the raised skin and the crevices I could reach, down to the finest white line, memorizing the map beneath my fingers.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently when my hand stilled.

"I'm fine," I replied honestly, and I turned in her arms to look up at her. "These marks are part of you, Em, and that's okay. I only worry about the new ones because I love you..." I blushed, hoping she didn't take that admission in the romantic way I probably meant it.

Thankfully, she didn't seem fazed. "I know, Jen. If it helps, I'm trying."

Of course it helped. What didn't help was the way I kept reacting to her use of my name. Jennifer, or Jen—somehow it felt more intimate than the abbreviation. It felt like she was looking into my soul and she knew it. She was considering me, slowly, curiously.

"Am I the only one who knows?" I asked, glancing down to free myself from the intensity of our eye contact. My gaze lingered at the sensuous dip between her clavicles, exposed by the open throat of her blouse.

"Yes," Emily replied honestly, and one of her hands rose to trace along my neck.

I swallowed. She had to be confused. She was unsure about this strange new relationship where I knew her secret and she was testing the boundaries. She was a cat stalking around a new home, brushing up against every surface, learning them and claiming them. Her skin was warm against mine, her fingers touching so lightly as to feel ephemeral. Fuck, I wanted to kiss her. And I didn't want to want it. But the closeness and the intimacy and then something about seeing her standing in my kitchen, giving orders like she lives here… I closed my eyes, felt my brow furrowing. How to step back without pushing her away? (Or to step back without losing the blissful connection I felt with her? To be here, but not here?) But Emily moved away before I had to, and a mixture of relief and disappointment washed over me.

"We have some time," she said. "Let's put on a movie."

_Thank you_. As Emily smiled and turned to walk into the living room, I let out an absurd sigh of relief. It was air I needed, to put some space between us so I could think logically. And yet minutes later I had followed her into the room, put a movie in the player, and curled right into her side.

She joked, "Maybe I'll be staying for breakfast after all."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Emily didn't stay for breakfast and that was probably for the best, although she did stay for another movie and a lot more wine. The next morning I received the call to come in at 6.15am. I made my own toast, got dressed, and drove in before the sun had properly risen.

To get such an early call I knew it was going to be a bad one, and Garcia's face as I walked into the room told me my intuition was correct. Emily was already sitting next to Morgan, who looked as bedraggled as it's possible to look without a head of hair to muss. He adjusted his clothes as Rossi entered, followed by Reid and finally Hotch.

"Alright, my dumplings, set your surgeons on speed dial 'cause I'm about to break your hearts," she began as the screen blinked awake behind her. "This is Lea Hawkins, she was 16, found at some ungodly hour this morning by a jogger in Crabapple Community Park. That's Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, by the way."

I already knew—it wasn't too far from where I'd grown up.

The photograph Garcia pulled up of Lea Hawkins could have been taken by a photography student. She lay on her back in a bed of flowers, her eyes were closed, her skin porcelain pale. She was clothed in a long white dress with billowing bell sleeves that gave her the appearance of having wings. On her feet were spotless white satin shoes, and her ankles were respectfully pressed together.

"It looks like she's sleeping," Emily commented. "No blood. I can't tell cause of death from this."

"As far as the ME can tell," Garcia explained. "Lea was poisoned over an extended period of time. She was probably feeling badly sick for weeks, poor thing, and the reason—as I'm sure you're wondering—that she did not go to a hospital during that time, is this—" Garcia changed the slide now to show Lea lying undressed in the medical examiner's office. Her body, previously covered by the modest dress, was almost completely covered in bruises, burns, and other wounds. I swallowed tightly as I realised that at least some of them were self-inflicted. Of course that's the case we'd pull right now.

"She was poisoned," Morgan repeated. "So we're probably looking at a female unsub."

"Or a suicide," Reid pointed out, obviously. "Are we sure there's a case here?"

"Yep, we're sure," Garcia said. "'Cause this is the hinky part. The ME says the wounds on her arms and legs, Lea probably did herself, which is really sad, but what's even sadder is that the bruising was a pretty regular thing. Lea's had a veritable ton of broken bones, some of which are really badly healed, but she hasn't been to a hospital since she was a little kid." Garcia voice rose to a slightly shrill note here. "Now I don't know why someone in this poor child's like did not _see_ what was going on and take her out of her home—I don't know why, but I _will_. And when I find out I will see to it personally that whoever is responsible is _decapitated_—"

"Baby girl," Morgan interrupted. "You said you don't think this is a suicide, and the abuse definitely needs looking into, but how can we be sure she didn't take the poison herself?"

"My love, I am sorry to say that Lea Hawkins is not our only victim," Garcia sighed. "Two other victims have been found in neighbouring districts over the past couple weeks with the same MO. It took the local PDs a while to piece them together because they were found across jurisdictional lines, but they all live pretty close together." The slide changed again: two more girls, their school photographs juxtaposed with their dead bodies. "This is Amanda Malley, 15; and Bailey James, she was only 14. Bailey was the first victim, she was found ten days ago. She went to the same school as Lea Hawkins, but she was in the year below. Amanda was homeschooled. All three show signs of long-term physical abuse prior to being poisoned."

"These girls didn't just walk into their local parks and lie down at the precise moment they were going to die," Hotch pointed out. "The unsub is purposely displaying these bodies. That, combined with the ritualistic dressing and positioning of the bodies, suggests she's proud of them and wants them to be found."

"She probably thinks she's doing these girls a favour," Rossi joined in. "She's saving them from lives she doesn't see as worth living."

"Like an Angel of Mercy," Emily put in.

"We should look into women in positions of authority, particularly carers—teachers at the school, nurses, counselors, local women who might have taken an interest in these girls. Somehow she had to find out these girls were being abused, even though none of them ever filed charges."

"Hotch, if the unsub is poisoning girls over a decent period of time, she's probably already started dosing her next victim, maybe even more than one," Reid suggested, and Hotch's grim expression indicated he had already thought of this.

"That's why it's important to get a move on this," he agreed. "Too much time has already been wasted. Garcia, you're coming with us—since we're dealing with teenagers, hopefully you'll be able to find something on their computers or cell phones and figure out who they've been in contact with or how they might have met the unsub."

"Yes sir," Garcia replied unflinchingly.

"Wheels up in thirty."

It took everything I had not to look at Emily. I didn't want to give anything away by showing concern for her. Instead I fell into step with Garcia, who needed to go back to her office for her go-bag. She gave me a strange look as I did.

"Something up, sugar?" she asked casually, and I put on a deliberately surprised look.

"No, nothing. It's just early," I promised, rubbing the back of my neck for effect. "I was up late."

Garcia's eyebrow rose. "Oh, okay? Who with? You did dump that hillbilly of yours didn't you?"

"With nobody," I said, maybe a little defensively. "And yeah, Will's not in the picture anymore. I don't know why he ever was."

Garcia snorted her amusement. "Took you long enough to figure that one out, sweetie."

I shrugged. "We spent so much time apart it took me a while to realise we had nothing in common."

Opening the door to her office and shoving some additional equipment into her go-bag, Garcia nodded appreciatively. "At least it wasn't a hard break up. Neither of you were all in for it."

"Yeah," I agreed. "That helped." Honestly, the conversation had me a little distracted. I hadn't been invested in Will at all and now I was finding myself suddenly but seriously invested about someone—a woman!—for the first time in years. Out of nowhere, I was all in for Emily.

"You sure nothing's up, sugarplum?" Garcia asked again. Her bag now rested on her shoulder and we were ready to leave but she delayed, placing a hand on my arm. "You're having trouble sleeping?"

"No, really, Pen. I stayed up late watching movies—"

"Alone." It wasn't a question. Garcia clearly didn't believe me.

I blushed. "_Yes_, alone!"

"Fine," she said. "Don't tell me." Then she winked. "You know I'll find out anyway. Come on—we don't want anyone waiting up for us."

She was out the door before I could protest.

"Sarah?"

"Miss Mara, I know it's a Saturday but you said I could call anytime, right? Is it ok? I'm sorry…"

"Come on, quiet down, Sarah, it's all okay. You call whenever you need to. Just as long as you use that special phone I gave you."

"Yeah… I'm so awful scared, Miss Mara. Mom's not here and dad's out drinking in the shed. I'm scared he's gonna come in and she's still gon be gone. He'll be so mad. I don't know where she is!"

"Listen, Sarah—are you safe?"

"My door's locked but he broke it down once already. Can I come by?"

"Can you get out without him seeing?"

"Yeah, I think so. 'Slong as he stays in the shed…"

"It's important, Sarah. Don't let anyone see."

"I won't Miss Mara."

"All right… Come on over then. I'll make you a hot drink."

"Get any sleep last night?"

I glanced up from the ME's report to find Emily watching me across the table. When I'd taken my usual seat on the jet she'd immediately picked the seat opposite, and my heart had sunk. I was still shaken up from seeing the wounds that little girl had inflicted on herself. Such things were bad enough when all they made me feel was guilty about Ros, but now, with Emily, it was ten times worse. I was floundering and we hadn't even touched down yet.

"After you left, none," I replied, quietly enough that no one else could hear.

"I didn't sleep either," Emily said, and she was smiling. "I wasn't tired when I left—I could've watched another movie."

To be honestly, I'd been exhausted, but I would have rather watched another movie than see her leave. Still, I told her, "If we had, I don't think either of us would have made the jet this morning."

"Did you see Morgan when he arrived? Makes me think we weren't the only two up late last night." Now she actually winked at me and I had to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Morgan called from a couple of rows back. His ears must have been burning or something.

"Mind your own business," Emily called back and Morgan chortled, returning to the papers in front of him. More quietly, Emily continued.

"Listen," she said. "I know you think this case is going to be impossible but it's not. You don't need to worry about me."

"Someone has to, Em," I replied unhappily.

I hoped she understood. I hated being the only one to know her secret. It made me feel responsible for each and every scar she bore. The bandages I'd seen had made it clear that her latest relapse was a recent one, and I knew she wasn't going to just quit out of nowhere because I'd found out. I dreaded the day I'd lift her sleeve to find new wounds added to the ranks of those I had already memorized. I felt, without a doubt, that they would be no one's fault but mine if I failed to get her help.

Emily frowned subtly but nodded. Lowering her eyes, she seemed to re-focus on whatever she'd been reading, but underneath the table separating us, one of her legs stretched forward to lean against mine. It wasn't a lot, but it was something. It told me that, while my sister had withdrawn in the period leading up to her suicide, Emily was still inviting me in. The casual brush of her calf against mine reassured me that she was still here. I leaned into her, and we didn't speak for the rest of the flight.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN/ It would be lovely to hear from you guys if you're up to it. Always good to know you're not writing to an empty room! :P**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The BAU isn't always welcomed when we encroach on local jurisdictions. Thankfully that was far from the case when we arrived in Westmoreland County. The local PD couldn't have been more inviting—they knew they were far out of their depth, and the release of details of long-term abuse to the media was reflecting badly on their competence at addressing domestic violence.

"There was nothing ever reported by the victims," Sheriff Gloria Cowley explained as she led us into the station. "Usually we get complaints filed by neighbours, teachers, parents of other kids at school—nothing at all in these cases. We can't be inside every home."

"You never know what's going on behind closed doors," Rossi agreed in his musing way, and Cowley seemed relieved by the support. The pressure on her to solve these murders quickly was immense.

"I knew Jared Hawkins—Lea's dad. Him and my husband were at school together." Cowley let out a long sigh. "You never can tell. You never can."

I knew from the look on Garcia's face that she strongly disagreed, but she had the tact not to say so. Instead she asked, "Do you have somewhere I can set up?" and Cowley directed another officer to show her the way.

"What can you tell us about Hawkins?" Emily asked.

"To tell you the truth, he's a pretty well-liked guy," Cowley admitted. "I even liked him. He coaches the football team down at the high school—well, not anymore. We've got him in custody. Got violent on the officer we sent to talk to him about the abuse. You folks can go on in and see him if you want?"

"We will," Hotch assured her. "Morgan and JJ, I want you to see what you can learn from Bailey James' parents. The first victim is usually the most significant. Emily and Reid, you can talk to Amanda Malley's parents. Then all head down to the school where Lea and Bailey studied. Rossi and I will interview Jared Hawkins."

Morgan inclined his head toward me and we left. I didn't look at Emily.

* * *

There was only one photograph of Bailey James in her parents' living room. In it she was less than six months old. Her mother, Ally James, sat holding her, while her father Rodney stood behind. Ally's smile was as tight as her husband's grip on her shoulder. The photograph sat on the mantelpiece, half-hidden behind a vase of wilted flowers. A bowling trophy—Rodney's—took pride of place.

"Thank you for seeing us, Mr and Mrs James," I began. "I know this is difficult for you."

We'd decided not to accuse right away, to be very sympathetic. All the same, it was difficult. Rodney looked a little choked up, but Ally seemed almost relieved. Her eyes were far away. She only really focused when her husband was watching her.

"Ally, put a pot o' coffee on for the agent and his pretty friend," Rodney ordered as his wife ushered us to sit.

"No, we're fine, really," I said, at the same time that Morgan cut in to remind Rodney that I was an agent too.

Both husband and wife stopped what they were doing, and I noticed that Ally didn't sit until her husband was seated.

"So what's this about," Rodney asked gruffly. "Do you want to know if Bailey had any enemies? She was just a kid."

I spoke cautiously. "The person we're looking for may not have looked like an enemy of Bailey's. They were probably close. Was there anyone at the school or around the neighbourhood—an older woman—that Bailey spent a lot of time with?"

"A woman?" Rodney repeated incredulously. "Some woman did this to our kid?"

"Bailey didn't spend a lot of time with anyone," Ally volunteered hesitantly, glancing at her husband. "She was a good girl. She always came right home after school."

"We're a close family, Miss Jareau," Rodney explained, putting his arm around his wife. "Bailey didn't need anyone else but us; didn't want 'em. She never got in trouble with her teachers, never talked to strangers. We didn't let no older woman go perving on our daughter if that's what you think happened."

"This woman wouldn't have been interested in your daughter sexually," Morgan offered. "Maybe she was someone who saw Bailey upset and wanted to help her."

"Who says Bailey was upset?" Rodney snapped. "Tell me, who? We were good parents, Ally and me. We took _care_ of our daughter. You talk to her school. She never got in any trouble ever. She didn't need help."

"Mr James, there was a lot of bruising on Bailey's body," I began, and Rodney interjected with, "That sick bitch!" while his wife looked physically ill.

"These bruises were at different stages of healing," I went on. "That tells us that they weren't all inflicted by your daughter's killer, if any were. There was also evidence that Bailey had broken some bones—"

"Those were _accidents_, Miss," Rodney explained, slowly and deliberately. "I said she was good, I didn't say she wasn't clumsy." His voice was calm but his body language dared us to try and pin this on him. A look from Morgan told me we weren't going to, not yet.

"Of course," I agreed, and Morgan asked Ally, "Do you mind if we take a look at Bailey's room?"

Rodney stood and Morgan glanced at Ally, who looked down. "Actually, sir, maybe you and I could have a chat, while _Miss_ Jareau goes upstairs. Your wife can go with her. Checking the room is really just a formality in a case like this—we don't expect to find anything. Like you said, Bailey was a good girl."

Rodney's eyes narrowed and Ally looked positively nauseous, but surprisingly he relented. "You want a beer or something?" he asked Morgan.

"Can't, on the job," Morgan declined, managing to sound genuinely disappointed, as if he would have liked to share a beer with the brute otherwise. "But if you've got some soda…?"

"Yeah, come on…"

I didn't delay in escorting Ally upstairs, but I didn't confront her about her husband immediately either.

There wasn't a lot in Bailey's room. No laptop. There was an old desktop computer we'd have to take for Garcia to analyse, but it didn't look like we'd get much there. It looked redundant enough that a teenage girl probably wouldn't use it at all.

"Did Bailey have a cell phone, Mrs James?" I asked. "We didn't find one on her."

"N-no," Ally answered. "Rot your brains, those things do. Rodney wouldn't hear of it."

"Did she ever use the landline? To call friends maybe?"

Ally's mouth was a firm line as she shook her head. "Maybe if she forgot to copy down the homework, she called someone. Clumsy, a bit dotty, but a good girl. We didn't allow her to waste her time gossiping on the phone."

Somehow I doubted that was the whole story—a fourteen-year-old girl with no phone and an ancient computer. She had to stay in touch with the world somehow, or at least stay in touch with the unsub.

"You mentioned she was a good student," I reminded her as I began to check through the few schoolbooks on Bailey's shelf. "Was Bailey involved in any clubs or school activities?"

Where at first she had seemed distant, Ally's distress was mounting now and it manifested in extreme defensiveness. "No, Miss. Look—she was a good kid. She came home straight from school, she didn't talk to nobody—"

"Because she wasn't allowed to?" I pressed.

"R-Rodney doesn't like her on the phone. They rot you brains they do, those things." Ally was repeating herself.

"What about the computer—can you access the Internet on it?"

Ally looked shocked. "No, Miss Jareau, you can't! A little girl like, Ally? Of course not. We protected her! There's some creeps out there. Sure, well, you know that, don't you."

"Yes, I do," I agreed, frowning. "What did Bailey use the computer for?"

"I don't think she used it for anything," Ally insisted. "I don't even know for sure it still works. It's just we don't have nowhere else better to put it."

"All the same," I said. "Do you mind if we take the computer with us so our technical analyst can have a look at it?"

"Do you have a warrant?" Ally asked, surprising me.

"Do I need one?"

She looked nervous, played with her hands, adjusted her necklace.

"Miss James," I said. "I _can_ get a warrant. That's no problem. I can call and have it brought here in no time flat, because we know your husband was beating Bailey. Maybe he was beating you too. I understand if you're scared, but if you let us take the computer we won't have to confront Rodney yet, do you understand?" No reply. "Is there something on that computer Rodney wouldn't want us to see?"

"How should I know what's on it," Ally sighed, sounding at once distrustful and resigned. "Take it if you like. I don't see what difference it'll make."

"Thank you," I said honestly. "Now, about your husband—"

"No." Ally's tone was firm now. "You don't know nothing about this family, Miss Jareau. And I'm not saying nothing about that thing you said. I'm not, so don't ask. You done here?"

"Ally," I pleaded, lowering my voice. "If your husband is hurting you, we can protect you from him. I've seen the photographs of Ally—all those bruises, the bones she'd been breaking for years. She wasn't clumsy, was she? It's natural to be scared, but we can help you."

Ally only drew herself up straighter and opened the door. "Maybe you're afraid of _your_ husband, Miss Jareau, but I'm not. I think you better go."

Outside Bailey's bedroom door I could see Morgan coming up the stairs, slightly ahead of Rodney. He was clumping around, making a racket to subtly warn me he was coming just in case Ally was admitting anything about Rodney. I only wished she were. Rodney, behind Morgan, looked angry. We ended up waiting on the warrant for the computer after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN/ I'm so busy right now! Lucky for you, that means I'm procrastinating all over the place! At some point I'm actually going to have to crack down... Reviews would be definite motivation to keep writing though ;) - Bec xx**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

When we arrived at the school, Morgan and I learned that Emily and Reid had had as much luck with Amanda's parents as we'd had with Bailey's, if not less. A laptop and cell phone had, however, been confiscated from Amanda's bedroom and were on their way to Garcia now.

Today, standing in the schoolyard made me feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Any of the children running past me on their break could be undergoing any sort of secret agony. Abuse, illness, disabilities, the loss of a loved one… It had to be somebody's job to pick up on these things and take care of them, yet Lea and Bailey's abuse had escalated to the point where they had been targeted by a mercy killer. Didn't any part of the blame for that fact lie with whoever had failed to look out for them at home and at school? I was trained to say _no_, it was all the unsub, but I wasn't sure I believed that anymore. Just like if something were to happen to Emily and I knew she was at risk but didn't say… I wasn't able to stop my sister—what made me think I could stop Emily if she really wanted to die? She said she didn't, but I chanced a glance at her. She smiled obliviously. I knew it would be no one's fault but mine if she did. The headmistress approached.

"You must be the agents investigating Bailey and Lea's murders," she greeted us briskly. "I'm the principal of this school, Delilah Hales."

"Agent Jennifer Jareau," I introduced myself. "We spoke on the phone. This is Doctor Reid, and these are Agents Morgan and Prentiss."

"I'm glad you're here," she acknowledged with a nod. "Please come in."

We did, and Mrs Hales provided a brief description of the school and its facilities en route to her office. It was clear that she didn't want to discuss anything sensitive in the corridors and we could understand that. It was on her shoulders to make sure everything continued to run smoothly in the wake of these tragedies.

When we did reach the privacy of her office, Mrs Hales didn't waste time in pulling up the hard copy files of both students, although Garcia had already been able to access them online. "The deaths have been weighing heavily on all of us here," she explained. "We've had to bring in counselors for the other students, especially those in the girls' years. So anything I can do, please let me know."

"We'll want to talk to Bailey and Lea's particular friends," Emily warned. "You're welcome to sit in on the conversations, of course."

"I will, thank you," Mrs Hales. Her nod was short, efficient. "With Lea you'll have no problem—she had a few very close friends. I've already spoken to them today. As for Bailey… To be honest, I didn't know her to have any particular friends."

This made an unfortunate kind of sense given the level of isolation Bailey's parents had seemed to encourage in her.

"We'll also need a list of all female members of staff," I added. "Including casuals, maintenance workers, yourself, and anyone else affiliated with the school who might have come into contact with the girls." I wasn't surprised to see defensiveness flare up in her expression.

"Agent Jareau, I assure you that my staff are all exceptionally decent people—"

"You hired Jared Hawkins to coach football," Morgan interrupted her. "He'd been beating his daughter for years."

To her credit, Mrs Hales looked genuinely baffled and then distraught. "None of my staff have criminal records, agents, not even the smallest thing. We make sure of it… Well, of course, if you need it, I'll make the list. Why only the women?"

"Statistically," Reid put in, "Almost all poisoning murders are committed by women. Men are more likely to stab, strangle, or shoot their victims—stabbing, in particular, because it mirrors the sexual act—"

"I don't want to hear this," Mrs Hales protested. "I'll call Lea's friends up for you." She reached for the intercom, but Emily stopped her.

"If you don't mind, we'd rather approach them in the playground," she brokered, and again Mrs Hales sighed before leading us out.

Lea's two girlfriends, Harriet and Maya, were visibly distressed. Throughout our conversation they sobbed and clung to each other, while a third friend, a boy called West, stood slightly aside and looked morose.

Ultimately, they couldn't reveal much—Lea was well liked but yes, they were her best friends. And, yeah, _of course_ they all texted each other. _No_, she'd never let on that anything was wrong at home. _What did we mean_, Jared Hawkins was hurting her? He was always such a cool dad!

"Sometimes he got us beers," Harriet blurted out, blushing as she glanced at her headmistress. "He didn't stick around and perve on us or anything. We just thought he was awesome like that… Oh my god, you can't tell my mom!"

"That's not the sort of thing we're here investigating," I assured her and she seemed to mellow slightly.

"When word gets out about Lea's dad, the school's going to be a mess," Maya whispered anxiously. "My brother's on the football team. We liked him…"

"Did you ever notice any strange injuries Lea might have had?" Reid tried. "Maybe she gave an excuse that seemed not quite right to you?"

Harriet and Maya glanced at each other and then mutually shrugged.

"She didn't ever, like, wear a bathing suit," Maya said. "Or we'd have noticed. I guess she wore layers a lot but we didn't think it was odd. That was just her style, y'know?"

"Lea's really clumsy," Harriet added on. "There was always something wrong with her but she didn't complain." Her voice picked up a faintly hysteric note here, "If I'd've known—!"

"Harry, he broke her arm three times!" West interrupted in a burst of anger, causing both girls' jaws to drop.

"She broke her arm playing soccer," Harriet reminded him deliberately, but West was insistent.

"_He_ did it. She told me he did!"

Morgan slipped in, as Harriet looked close to tears. "Kid, if you knew Lea was getting beat on at home, why didn't you tell someone?"

West shot a strange look at Mrs Hales, narrowed his eyes, then looked down at his sneakers. "Lea told me not to, didn't she," he muttered.

"West, are you serious?!" Maya cried. "You knew about this?"

"She hurt herself." His voice was low and angry—not at Lea, but at almost everyone else. "She did it with a razor blade or her dad's cigarettes. She said if I said a word to anyone they'd make it a big thing and her life wouldn't be worth living—she'd have to kill herself. What was I s'posed to do when she said that?"

I was the liaison, wasn't I? It was my job to establish a rapport, to understand and comfort the kids in a situation like this. But I couldn't even open my mouth, couldn't swallow. My throat ached. What was I even doing here? In my periphery, I noticed Emily glance my way, then Morgan. I couldn't look at either of them.

"Okay, kid," Morgan acquiesced. "Did anyone else know except you?"

"No—" West said, too quickly, and Morgan slowed him down.

"Do me a favour and think about that for a minute," he instructed. "It's important."

"No, really, man," West insisted, looking up. "It was just me. She said I couldn't tell _anyone."_

"What about teachers?" Morgan pressed. "Were there any that she was particularly close with or maybe acted strangely around? She might even have avoided them. This'd be a woman."

"Lea wasn't doing well in school," Harriet put in quietly, receiving a grateful glance from West. "She avoided a lot of teachers. They generally liked her 'cause she was funny, but she had no focus. I guess she had a lot on her mind."

"We should've asked," Maya agreed, equally softly.

Again I desperately wanted to tell them that it was okay, that it wasn't their fault. It wasn't as if I didn't believe it, or at least I didn't think so, I just couldn't say it. The bell rang, saving any of us from answering. For some reason it was me the kids looked to, making sure they were allowed to leave with their classmates, so I nodded them off, a little dazedly.

"Let's head back to the station and see what Hotch and Rossi have found out," Morgan suggested, then he thanked Mrs Hales for her time and she too returned to the school building. "You're riding with me again, JJ?" he directed at me. It was phrased like a question but I knew I wasn't supposed to disagree.

* * *

In the car, Morgan was onto me before he'd even finished turning the key in the ignition.

"What was that back there, JJ?" he asked. "Even those kids got that you were out of it."

"I'm sorry," I apologised, a little stiffly. "This case just brings back memories of my sister, you know?"

It was weird for me to be bringing Ros into the conversation unnecessarily. She was a scapegoat, I realised. I was giving her to Morgan so I could keep Emily for myself. He seemed unsurprised but relieved by what he must have received as openness on my part.

"Yeah, okay," he accepted, pulling out of the school parking lot and onto the street. "Anything you want to talk about, you know I'm here, right?"

"Thanks, Derek," I replied automatically. "I'll keep that in mind." I already knew that I couldn't have anything to say to him about this.

To his credit, Morgan didn't really seem satisfied by my response but he dropped it. His profiler senses were probably tingling, telling him he was missing something. Thankfully—or not so thankfully—Emily played her cards close enough to her chest that there was no way anyone on the team would ever expect her not to be okay. Plus, as we'd seen, you can have all the signs of things being wrong without anyone ever actually seeing it—almost, anyway. We'd never to talk to that West kid again. Either way, it was me, not Emily, who needed to shore up my act in order to protect her.

Morgan's phone began to ring and he put it on speaker, immediately warning Garcia of this before she could chip in with one of her usual innuendos.

"Party pooper," Garcia sighed. "But listen, okay—I've been going through Lea's cell phone records and they are surprisingly… empty. Like, too empty."

"So she deleted all her calls and texts?" Morgan assumed.

"You think I can't retrieve a few messages deleted by a 16-year-old?" Garcia shot back, insulted. "The data was never here. All I've got are a few texts to mom and dad asking when they'll be there to pick her up. Yikes, one time she waited four hours…"

"Garcia, that doesn't make sense," I pointed out. "Lea's friends told us she was texting them every day."

"Not on this phone she wasn't," Garcia replied. Her tone was one of complete confidence.

"…Okay, thanks, Baby Girl, we won't be long," Morgan signed off, hanging up. Then he glanced across at me. "So, what—Lea had a second phone?"

"If she did, it wasn't found on her body and her parents didn't know about it," I replied. "Think the unsub took it with her?"

Morgan turned up the road toward the police station, and nodded his head thoughtfully. "If the unsub gave Lea the phone as a way of keeping in touch in secret, maybe she removed it from the body so that we couldn't trace it back to her… 'Course, that means it's probably gone by now. She wouldn't have kept any incriminating evidence."

"Bailey James' parents wouldn't let her have a cellphone or use the Internet," I remembered. "She was the first victim. So maybe the unsub got her the phone to arrange their meetings as a necessity, then continued the practice with Amanda Malley and Lea Hawkins when it worked the first time. She wouldn't have realised that Lea was using the same phone to contact her friends."

"If that's true, we should be able to get Lea's second number off any one of those three kids," Morgan pointed out, satisfied. "I'll get Garcia on it."

* * *

Lately, it felt like every time a member of the team got me alone it was to ask if I was all right. As much as I hated the question, I was glad to hear it coming from Emily. It meant that the day was finally over, that we were alone in our shared motel room, and we could talk about such things. It was 8.30pm and we'd been up and working since 6.15 in the morning.

"I'm not great," I found myself admitting unguardedly.

Sitting cross-legged on my single bed, I glanced up to catch Emily's response. The expected answer to "Are you okay?" is always, "I'm fine," after all. But Emily didn't seem surprised by my honesty. She had just exited the bathroom and now wore only a white tank top and black silk pajama pants. As she came to sit by me, she was still in the process of drying her hair. Then she tossed the towel aside and smiled as it successfully caught on the back of a desk chair.

"You're wearing Rosaline's necklace," she noticed, reaching out to touch it, and my neck, briefly.

"It helps me remember why I'm doing this," I explained. To be honest, it hadn't been doing a great job today but I didn't say so. She'd noticed, just like everyone else.

Emily nodded her understanding silently and leaned against my side more fully than she'd been able to on the plane this morning. Her wet hair dampened my blouse and, as I chanced a look her way, I realised with a blush that she wasn't wearing a bra. I swallowed dryly.

"I saw the way you tensed up when that kid was talking about Lea—how she threatened to kill herself," Emily continued, her voice level but easy. "Morgan noticed too. Did he try and talk to you? In the car?"

"He asked how I was," I admitted. "I told him I was dealing with it."

Emily nodded, smiling softly. I think, or hope, she understood that it was only her I'd really opened up to about Rosaline, even before all this.

"I just want you to know that I'm not going to do that to you, ever," Emily promised. "If it gets to the point where you feel like you have to tell someone about me, I'll understand. I mightn't be happy about it, but I'll forgive you and we'll deal with it together."

Emily placed a hand over mine, resting on my leg, and I slipped another over hers gratefully.

"Em, I want you to be ok without me needing to tell anyone," I told her. "But I will if I need to. If it gets worse."

Emily had removed the bandage from her upper arm to shower, and I didn't like how deep the wounds it had hidden looked now. All the same, I was glad to see that they didn't look newer than a few weeks old.

"Have you done it yet?" I asked uncertainly. "Since I've known?"

Emily's eyes filled with guilt, pre-emptive guilt as it turned out. "I haven't, Jen... But I will. I don't know when, but when that happens, you know it's not going to be your fault, right?"

Again, I couldn't speak. I nodded but honestly I still didn't know what to believe on that front. I ran my thumb back and forth across the back of her hand and struggled not to cry.

"It's okay," Emily promised, leaning closer still so that her breath was by my ear, her chest brushing my arm. "I'm here right now, I'm okay."

Unthinkingly, I kissed her; I turned my head and pressed my lips fully against hers and closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see her face if she rejected me. When she didn't immediately pull away I placed my hand at her neck and brought her closer, longing to feel every part of her against every part of me. Softly, Emily caught my lower lip between hers and sighed into me. Then she pulled away, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was accompanied by a breathless little laugh, and I laughed too, in surprise. It reminded me of the first time I'd met her. She'd been so excited to join the BAU, so eager to please, always fixing her hair and smiling.

"I've never…" she began and her eyes were a little wide.

"I haven't done that with a woman before either," I admitted, knowing what she meant. Still, I couldn't keep the grin off my face. I was quietly giddy. "Was it… okay?"

"Yeah, Jen, it was good," Emily laughed. Unnecessarily, she readjusted her hair. "It was really good, actually…" She trailed off.

"Can I…?"

Our lips touched again, but only for a second before we were overcome by giggles.

"I'm n-not laughing at you!" she promised.

"I'm not laughing at you either!" I replied.

It was surreal, but Emily's laughter was genuine. Her eyes happy and bright. It made me think that maybe we'd be okay after all.

"I'm going to shower," I declared, blushing. "I'll talk to you later."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

I found her in the bathtub. The water had turned viciously red around her, but was lighter at the edges. A mocking, cloying pink. I screamed but I didn't scream. No sound would leave my mouth. My chest heaved with the shuddering motion of sobs but I was dry-eyed. It was like Rosaline's death had sucked all the sound, water, and air from the earth, leaving an empty shell, deathly silent. Mom found me in the doorway. "Jennifer, give your sister some peace," she sighed. "She's got a big day tomorrow." Then she saw. And she did scream—long and keyless. I can't get it out of my head. In my dream she's screaming at me: _"It's your fault! Why Ros?! Why couldn't it be you?!"_

I awoke, panting, and the first thing I saw was Emily's scarred arm reaching out to stroke my hair. I shoved it away.

"What are you doing? Get off me!"

For a second I saw Emily's eyes, large and hurt, but a mask of indifference quickly fell across them. "You were having a nightmare," she said tonelessly. "Sorry." She slipped off the edge of my bed where she'd been perched and walked towards the bathroom. "Hotch called, he wants us at the station in an hour."

"Emily, wait!" I cried. The sight of her in the bathroom doorway was too much. "Just— Just wait a minute, while I—" _catch my breath,_ or something...

Emily nodded, but she crossed her arms over her chest defensively, wouldn't engage with me.

I struggled to make sense of my feelings. All I knew was that I didn't want Emily out of my sight until I'd figured them out. The image of Ros, bled out in the tub, was seared onto the backs of my eyes. I couldn't escape it, couldn't think. I tried to gesture for Emily to stay where she was and I think she understood, but she came over anyway. Hesitantly, she sat down on the bed next to me again, while I leaned my back against the headboard and tried to breath. This time, she didn't try to touch me.

"Is it Ros?" she asked quietly. Her voice let on nothing.

"Yeah, I guess," I sighed. I ran a hand through my hair, tried to forget the image I'd woken up to. For a second it had been Emily there in Ros's place.

"You guess?" Emily repeated.

It was hard to hear her voice, reaching out but detached. She sat close, wanted to be there for me, but her hands were folded purposely in her lap. I'd done that, I realised, when I pushed her away. I wanted to take her hand and apologise but I couldn't.

"You found Ros in the bathroom, didn't you," Emily guessed, raising her eyes to meet mine. "That's why you didn't want me to go in."

"I just need a minute," I whispered, shaking, not answering.

"JJ…"

I flinched as Emily reached out a hand to touch my arm, and she did too. Her hand dropped. Her brow furrowed. "We've got to get ready," she reminded me, in a different voice. "Hotch is expecting us."

I breathed in and tried to compose myself. "Fine," I said, a little more snappily than I intended to. "Go. It doesn't matter."

I wanted her to stay, to tell me it did matter, to know I was sorry without me having to say it, to just draw me into her arms and hold me. I wanted her to tell me that there was no way I'd ever lose her. Instead, Emily stood, without revealing anything. She gathered a pile of clothes she'd unpacked into a drawer and walked into the bathroom without looking back.

I waited—she was quick enough. When she came out she was dressed in a pair of long black slacks, whose hems trailed on the carpet when she didn't wear heels. She wore a dark blue button-down shirt, which she fastened at the cuffs so that no accident of movement could reveal her scars. She hadn't washed her hair again but it had been neatly brushed out. Without acknowledging me, Emily crossed to the mirror that hung over the desk and began applying make-up. I understood that it was my turn to get up and when I locked myself in the bathroom I couldn't shower until I'd checked the room thoroughly for signs of blood. I checked the bathtub last. My heart was beating so fast; I think I half-expected to see Ros there. A reclining ghost in vivid colour—two colours, in fact: white and red. But the tub was clean, empty.

* * *

"JJ, tell Emily that guy over there is totally checking her out!" Garcia ordered as I carefully carried our three coffees over from the machine.

For goodness' sake, I'd only been gone a minute. Throwing an arbitrary glance over my shoulder and eyeing the motel breakfast room with suspicion, I caught sight of the guy Garcia was referring to. He quickly looked down as I met his eye. "I couldn't say," I lied. But it was obvious he was keen on Emily.

"It doesn't matter," Emily dismissed us. "Because I'm not interested."

"Excuse me!" Garcia protested. "Look at him! If you don't want him, I'll gladly—"

"We're on a case, Garcia," I defended Emily, hoping she wouldn't read too far into it. "I doubt Emily's looking to pick up a guy."

"Oh, like you weren't with Will?" Garcia replied, her eyebrow raised.

"Jesus, Will was a mistake, we all know that," I sighed. When was I going to live that down? "Anyway, for all you know, Emily isn't even interested in guys."

It was Emily who raised an eyebrow at me now. "I've dated guys," she said plainly. "I've more-than-dated guys, and so have you. What, did you think that just because of that...?"

"Just because of what?" Garcia prompted, her eyes narrowing as she caught the scent of a gossip, but Emily backtracked.

"It was nothing," she told Pen, and I blushed—whether from embarrassment or anger, I didn't know. I turned my face back towards Emily's admirer to hide it. …Shit. He was coming over.

"Good morning ladies," he greeted us with a wink. Damn, even his voice was smooth.

"Good morning, good sir," Garcia replied enthusiastically.

"Can I get you girls some coffee?" he asked, and I rolled my eyes.

"We're fine, thanks," I replied, tapping my full and steaming cup.

"Sorry, I should say… My name's John Turner. I'm a reporter with the—"

Finally! This, I felt comfortable rebuffing, and I sent the guy well on his way. When I looked at the girls again, feeling satisfied, Emily's face was impassive but Garcia was radiating amusement.

"Wow, a little touchy this morning, Jayj," she hinted, her eyes flicking between me and Emily. "Something happen last night I should know about?"

"No leads on the case," I snapped, "If that's what you mean. I'm going to get a head start. I'll catch you up later."

I left my coffee hot on the table and sorely regretted it.

* * *

By lunch there was a fourth victim and I didn't feel like eating. Hotch gathered us to deliver the profile.

"The woman we're looking for is between the ages of 20 and 30. She's young enough to build a rapport with these girls and gain their trust, but she's old enough to be a voice of authority and to have access to poisons and the understanding to use them," he began.

"She probably blends into settings where there are a lot of kids, because no one can recall the victims talking to anyone strange leading up to their murders," Emily continued. "She's organised and meticulous, taking forensic countermeasures such as dumping the bodies across jurisdictional lines and removing the phones she used to maintain contact with the girls."

"From the decreasing lengths of time between the discovery of each victim, we believe the unsub is escalating. This means she is increasingly dangerous and has probably already begun seeking further victims. Due to this escalation, it appears that the unsub no longer has time to dose her victims over a period of weeks—the latest victim ingested all the poison in the hours prior to her death, and it looks like she, unlike the others, was forced to drink it."

Rossi took over: "If confronted, this unsub _will_ become violent," he warned. "She believes that she is acting righteously, saving these girls from a fate worse than death—the abuse they suffer at homes. She will see us as threats to the girls' wellbeing and do anything she can to protect them."

Reid stepped forward now and indicated the geographical profile he had drawn up based on the girls' homes and schools. "Although the dump sites are far apart and span multiple jurisdictions, all four girls lived within a reasonable distance of each other, which is why the think the unsub lives and works in the area," Reid explained. "And even though the second victim, Amanda Malley, was homeschooled, and the fourth victim, Sarah Johnson, attended a different school than Lea and Bailey, teachers and other members of staff at both schools should be considered suspects."

"We don't want to waste time on this one," Hotch instructed grimly. "This unsub is only becoming more dangerous and she will not stop unless she is either arrested or killed. Thank you."

* * *

"Where's Miss Mara?" Harriet whispered as she slipped into her seat beside Maya. She was late, as usual, and unpleasantly surprised to find herself being glared down by a substitute instead of their usual, and far more lenient, English teacher.

Maya leaned over to reply, "There's a memorial service today for that girl, Amanda. The sub says Miss Mara's gone."

West, sitting on Maya's other side, looked up at that. "Did she know Amanda?" he asked a little too loudly, earning himself a vicious _shh_ from the substitute.

Harriet shrugged, furrowing her brow as if to ask why it mattered.

Maya thought about it. "You know how Miss Mara's always saying to come to her tutoring groups at the rec centre? Some homeschooled kids turn up 'cause their parents don't teach them right. Some kids from other schools too. Maybe Amanda was one of them?"

"You go to Miss Mara's tutor groups?" Harriet asked disbelievingly and Maya blushed.

"Sometimes I do, so what," she replied, her tone defensive. "It's why I get better marks than you."

"Because you're a kiss up!"

"I am not!"

"_If you two girls can't be quiet I'll separate you."_

"Miss?" West interrupted suddenly. "I don't feel so good." He stood with a theatrical wobble and leaned his hands on the desk to secure his footing. "Can I go see the nurse?"

A long sigh from the substitute teacher. "You'll need a hall pass," she told him, as though it would be a huge inconvenience for her to give him one.

"Please, Miss, I think I'm gonna be sick!"

That did it, and the substitute held out the pass at arm's length, grimacing as he took it. "If that's _all_," she directed at Harriet and Maya as West left the room, "Can we get back to work?"

* * *

"Garcia," Emily called as she approached the tech analyst's converted workstation . "Have you got anything on the phone number Lea used to secretly text her friends?"

"Ummmm… Repeated calls to a burned phone… interspersed with calls to Harriet, Maya, and West—especially West. She called him a _lot_," Garcia replied, double-checking. "I managed to retrieve a few texts, even though you didn't actually find me the phone, so if you want to start singing my praises—"

"What kind of texts," I interrupted and Morgan looked up too. Rossi , Reid, and Hotch were still out talking to the fourth victim's parents.

"Mostly kid stuff—flirting, fighting," Garcia summarized. "He wasn't lying—she did threaten to kill herself and he definitely knew how bad things were with her dad, even though the two girls don't seem to have. Lea did make a lot of calls to a burner cell, especially at night—she was probably instructed to call instead of text so there wouldn't be an exact record but… ohhh, babies, I think I've got a text Lea sent to the unsub."

"Let's hear it, baby girl!" Morgan whipped out, causing Garcia to shake her head.

"Patience is a virtue, my chocolate Adonis," she retorted. "Ok, got it… It looks like she wanted to meet up." Garcia's fingers fluttered across the keyboard and seconds later my phone beeped as I received the text—the other's did too. Garcia read it aloud, "Hey Miss, I gotta get outta the house. It's mad in here. Can we meet at that same place? I'll be waiting." She breathed in deeply. "Oh my god, this was sent the night she was killed."

"The unsub must have administered the final dose of poison wherever she went to meet Lea," I pointed out.

"And Lea called her 'Miss'," said JJ, "We heard the kids at the school refer to their teachers that way."

"Garcia, did the principal send you that list of names?" Morgan asked.

Garcia only smirked. "I'm going to let you pretend that I needed her to," she said cockily. "Just give me some parameters and I will cross-check like the wind, my love."

"Age 20 to 30," Reid began.

"Single," Morgan added.

"She believes its kinder to kill these girls than to allow them to live in abusive households, so she may have either experienced such trauma herself or been close to someone who had," I suggested.

"Gonna need something more specific than that, angelfish," Garcia replied, wiggling her fingers in preparation to type.

"Judging from the age of the kids she goes after, and assuming that the unsub is between 20 and 30 years old, it's unlikely that we're talking about her child having been abused," said Reid. "Garcia, how many of the female staff members have sisters or female cousins?"

"Just six."

"Okay," Reid continued, "Any records of child abuse, probably between the ages of 14 and 17?"

"No, I'm coming up empty…" Garcia sighed. Then, "Oh, but wait? There's nothing in the records about any abuse, but there's an English teacher, Jade Mara. She taught Lea Hawkins _and_ took Bailey James' homeroom. Her sister Lucy committed suicide about twelve weeks ago."

"That could be the stressor," I said quickly. "Garcia, can you bring up hospital records for Lucy Mara?"

"Doing it now…" Garcia promised. "Wow… Lucy might never have gone to the police but something was not going right in her life because she's broken more bones than I knew it was possible to break. I've got her admitted to hospital twelve times within a few years while she was a teenager for all sorts of ailments explained as sporting injuries. More recently: in the last year, she's been admitted three times… looks like it's all for self-injury requiring stitches and, the last time, surgery to reconstruct a damaged vein. Twelve weeks ago she died of— Sweet thunder, she poisoned herself. Looks like she was a nurse—used her access to pharmaceuticals to stockpile medication, but not everything she stole was found after she died."

"Because her sister took the rest of the stash with her," Morgan decided. "We've got her."

A hedging sound from Garcia. "Ah… Uh-oh…"

"Uh-oh, what? Garcia?" Emily asked, stopping halfway to the door.

"Jade Mara didn't turn up at the school today," Garcia explained, "I'm looking into absences at the two schools we know she was involved with. There are six girls home from school today fitting the ages we know she been going after. God, I hope they've all got chickenpox… Sending her home address to your phones!"

"Garcia, do any of those girls' fathers have a criminal record?"

"Uhh, some drink driving, possession of a restricted substance… Jinkies!"

"What have you got, baby girl?" Morgan asked.

Garcia looked up from her computer, dread on her face. "Tabitha Burnam, she's sixteen. Her dad was questioned by police when neighbours complained about screams coming from the house and what sounded like glass breaking repeatedly. Looks like Tabitha was pretty shaken up but she claimed she'd been attacked by a stranger as she arrived home and he freaked out and ran off when she screamed. That investigation went nowhere, mainly because the police were pretty sure the dad was involved but couldn't prove it. Now, before you ask: Yes, she's got a cell phone; yes, it's still turned on; and I am tracking it now."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Are you ready?"

Emily jumped as I entered the station bathroom. I tried to discern if she was surprised or guilty—or perhaps still angry with me—but her famously controlled face showed nothing. It was amazing, that expressionless gaze. I watched Emily inspect it in the mirror. No movement of the eyes or the mouth gave away what she was thinking as she ran her hands under the tap. Then she moved to dry them and I saw the flap of an open cuff at her wrist. It wasn't enough to reveal anything but they'd both been closed this morning.

I didn't mention it, filed the thought away for later. "Hotch, Reid, and Rossi are heading to Jade Mara's residence." I noticed that, even when she discarded the paper towel looked at me, Emily kept standing side-on. Her left arm was turned away from me.

"Then let's go," she said. Her eyes, meeting mine, were empty.

* * *

"Clear!" Reid called as he entered Mara's dining room through the kitchen.

"Same through here," Rossi declared, entering from the hall. They glanced around. A polished wooden table sat at the centre of a room that was virtually a shrine to Mara's sister. It was cluttered with small objects and photographs. A few half-burned candles sat at the centre beside a box of safety matches.

"You need to see this," Hotch called up from the basement.

_This_ was a pair bodies. Not poisoned, but shot. A man and a woman. She was dressed in blood-stained white, his face had been obliterated. Both were in a foul state of decomposition.

"Her parents, maybe?" Rossi suggested, his nose crinkling at the smell. "Looks like they were her first victims."

"She probably blamed them for her sister's death," Reid pointed out.

Hotch dialed Garcia and confirmed that, while no missing persons report had been filed for the couple, Mara's parents operated a small farm not too far away. Neither held regular jobs in town and so it was possible that their disappearance had gone unnoticed. A computer beeped in the background as the trace on Tabitha Burnam's phone completed. "She's on the highway," Garcia said suddenly. "Heading north. The farm could easily be the unsub's secondary location."

"Are Prentiss, JJ, and Morgan still with you?" Hotch asked, and Garcia confirmed. "Okay, get them on it. We'll follow."

"Right away, sir!"

* * *

"Thanks awfully for doing this, Miss Mara," murmured Tabitha as the older woman held open the door of her car. "I just couldn't face school, y'know? My dad said I couldn't go to Amanda's service..." She sniffly loudly as Mara took her arm and led her toward the house. "I-is it true her daddy beat her up, too? She never told me. I would'a tried to help her!"

"How could you have helped her," Miss Mara replied, her grip tightening slightly. "The police don't help. They believe anything they're told, and you know if you tell the truth you'll only get it at home later. No one could've saved Amanda."

Tabitha nodded, her head down, as Mara felt in her purse for the key to her parents' house. "I know, same as with my daddy," she agreed. "Still, I wish I could've helped."

"Don't you ever wish it would end, Tabby?" Mara asked, holding the door open.

Tabitha's eyes were filled with tears. "'Course I do, Miss," she said emphatically. "I don't want anything else but for it to stop."

In the kitchen, Miss Mara placed a pan on the stove. "This is my special hot chocolate I'm making, Tabby. It's the only thing that'll make things better, you know."

Tabitha smiled gratefully, but there was a wobble to her lips. "Thanks, Miss… I— I think you're the only one who really cares about me." She blushed, unsure if that was something she was allowed to say, but Mara nodded encouragingly.

"That's right, Tabby. I'm the one who cares," she promised, adding chocolate, milk, spices, and something else Tabitha couldn't see to the pan. There was an incredible smell as the mixture began to simmer. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you ever again, okay?"

"But how, Miss?" Tabitha whispered. "I'm sorry but your hot chocolate can't be that good, can it? It ain't going to stop my daddy hurting me and my mom…"

Miss Mara stirred slowly before pouring the drink into two large mugs. She set them on the table seriously. "Roll up your sleeves, Tabby."

A deeper blush heated Tabitha's face and she looked away. "Miss, you know?" she asked, doing as she was told.

"It was the same with Lea," Mara told her. "She also hurt herself to escape the pain her father inflicted on her."

"Lea…" Tabitha repeated. "You're talking about that other girl who was murdered, right? You knew her?"

"I knew her very well," said Mara, pushing one of the mugs toward Tabitha. "I knew she didn't want to live anymore, so I helped her."

Tabitha placed her hands around the mug and clung tightly to it. "Is that what this is?" she asked. "You're offering me a way out?"

"Yes, Tabby. That's exactly what this is."

"_Stop what you're doing! Right now!"_

A boy's voice, not a man's. Shrill and angry. West stepped into the room with his father's gun pointed directly at the woman who had taken his friend's life. Tabitha screamed.

"Put your hands up!" West insisted. "And you—don't you drink that. This woman's killed four people! Poisoned them!"

"West, don't be stupid," Miss Mara said, her voice suddenly cold. She raised her hands, but her eyes flicked over to Tabitha. She urged her to drink without words.

Tabitha didn't move—not to take the poison, but not to release it either. She clung to her mug like a lifebuoy. "Go away," she begged West. "I don't know who you are, but you're not police, right? You're just a kid. So quit waving that thing and get out of here. This is none of your business!"

"She killed my best friend!" West screamed. Then, at Mara, "You killed Lea!"

"She wanted to die," Mara told him unflinchingly.

West didn't argue. "I _know_ she did," he said, and his eyes were wet with tears. "But she wasn't going to—she promised! It wasn't your decision to make!"

"I'm sorry, West, but Lea lied to you," Mara replied. "She would've said anything to get you off her back." Her eyes settled on Tabitha, softening. "Lea was the same as you," she explained. "Those scars you have on your arms—Lea said hurting herself gave her something to focus on, a little bit of pain she could control to block out all the pain that she couldn't. When she realised she was dying, she was happy. And I made her beautiful. I made her an angel."

Tabitha's hands shook.

* * *

When we pulled up at the farmhouse we saw West right away, standing by the kitchen window. His friend Harriet had called to warn us that he'd disappeared, and we weren't surprised he had found his way here. He'd obviously known more than he let on. Morgan motioned silently that he was going in through the front door. Emily and I took the back.

"_FBI, lower your weapon!" _

We came through the door when we heard Morgan's shout. West looked younger now than he had at the school, and his voice cracked when he spoke. Still, the panic in his eyes made him more dangerous than the gun in his hands.

"She killed Lea, and all the others," he cried pleadingly. "She's poisoned that drink—she wants to kill this girl too!"

"Why can't you just go away?!" Tabitha shrieked at him, and it was the desperation and fury in her voice that propelled Mara to action. Before West had time to react, she was reaching into her purse.

"Gun!" Morgan shouted, pulling West down. The boy fired a shot into the tiled floor just as Emily fired a shot that grazed Mara's hand and sent her weapon clattering to the ground. Then she was striding ahead and cuffing the unsub. I rushed over to Tabitha.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

Morgan removed West from the room, kicking and screaming, while Mara screeched into Emily's face. "When he hurts her again, it'll be your fault! It'll be _your fault,_ you sick bitch! People don't change, they just get worse! _They only ever get worse!_"

Tabitha was sobbing now, and, kneeling with a hand on her shoulder, I looked up at Emily, whose usually calm face showed distinct signs of fury. "Can you get Mara out of here?" I asked, concerned.

"Not a problem," she replied. The screaming kicked up again as soon as she got outside and West, guided into our SUV by Morgan, caught sight of her. I shut the kitchen window to dull the sound and turned back to see Tabitha raising her mug. It wasn't hard to take it from her, but when I did, she only cried harder.

"I wish you hadn't come," she sobbed bitterly. "M-Miss Mara said Lea was happy to die."

I felt nauseous but I managed to empty the two mugs down the sink and replace them with glasses of water. When she'd caught her breath, Tabitha reluctantly took a sip.

"Miss Mara was sick," I explained carefully, knowing her loyalty to the woman, like that of the other girls, was huge. "Her sister went through a lot of the same things you did and she ended up killing herself. I'm not telling you that because I think it's the right answer, I'm telling you that because I want you to know how killing yourself can change the people you care about. Mara killed six people—the other girls and her parents. And West might've killed her if we hadn't arrived in time. Loss is… a terrible, terrible thing." I swallowed, my throat sore and dry.

"Nobody cares about me," Tabitha argued softly. "No one's going to kill anyone because I'm gone."

"That doesn't mean they won't hurt, Tabitha. And I think people might care more than you think," I said. "You were friends with Amanda weren't you?"

A fresh wave of tears erupted from Tabitha as she nodded. "I didn't even know!" she told me. "About her dad, I mean. All those times I wished someone would realise how much I was hurting and I didn't even see about Amanda's dad!"

"I'm sure she hid it well, just like you do, Tabitha." I glanced up now as Emily entered the kitchen, alone. "Sometimes," I said, looking right at her, "People can grow up believing they have to hide their pain, always put on a brave face. But if you do that, there's no way anyone can help you. And just like you wished you could've helped Tabitha, there will always be people wanting to help you if you let them know how."

"I don't want help," Tabitha whispered. "I just want to die. I want it all to go away. Miss Mara understood that…"

"Tabitha, so do I," Emily admitted. She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she came and sat on the table near Tabitha and I. Slowly she unbuttoned her sleeve and drew it up, just a fraction of the way. She revealed to Tabitha a few of the fine white scars that she, like Ros, had once excused to me as scratches from a non-existent cat. It seemed like an age had passed since then.

Tabitha sucked in a deep breath and stared wonderingly at Emily's exposed wrist. "How long?" she asked.

"I was younger than you the first time," Emily said, and although I knew she was aware of my presence, she kept her eyes focused solely on Tabitha. "I moved around a lot and it was hard for me to fit in. A friend of mine, Matthew, he saved my life. I wasn't grateful then, but I swear am now."

My hand reached out to cover Emily's on the table and she looked at me directly.

"I have so many wonderful people in my life now that I'd never have met if I'd killed myself then." She buttoned her cuff again. "What I'm saying is that it won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. And Miss Mara's solution isn't the only one. You have the choice now about how you want to live, or not."

I heard the second SUV pull up outside, and stood. "Are you okay to go now?" I asked Tabitha.

The girl's eyes filled with fear and I was angry, once again, that she'd been made to feel so frightened. "Will you take me home?"

"No," I promised resoundingly. "No, of course not."

* * *

At the station, I was surprised to see Bailey's mother, Ally. It had seemed that she couldn't wait to be rid of us when we visited her earlier.

"She's filing charges against her husband for domestic violence," Hotch explained when he saw me watching. "They're bringing in a doctor to look at her injuries and, combined with her evidence regarding the cause of Bailey's injuries, it's going to be enough to put him away, at least for a while."

"I can't help feeling he deserves worse," I admitted. "All these fathers do, breaking their children's trust like that."

"I feel the same way," Hotch agreed, and I knew he was thinking of his son, Jack. "But it's something at least. And Tabitha and her mother will never have to see him again. The restraining order has been processed and he's been taken into custody."

"That is something," I sighed, relieved.

He seemed to consider me carefully for a second, then he nodded toward the others, who were drinking coffee in a corner. "Why don't you all head back to the motel. Dave and I have got things under control here."

The reprieve was welcome. I thanked him and was about to convey his message to the others when I caught sight of Tabitha's mother arriving and embracing her daughter. Both were crying. Yet both, I somehow knew, were going to be okay.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN./ Hope you guys don't mind a whole chapter devoted to fluff? ;) –Bec xx**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"You know this is… against the rules… right?" Emily's voice was breathy and needy and I loved hearing it. "Fraternisation… between bureau employees..."

Emily yelped as I bit down on her neck before soothing the area with my tongue.

"I know," I whispered, letting my breath and my lips move against her skin. "Is that okay with you?"

Emily took a deep, shuddering breath and smiled. "Yeah. I'm just—_Mmmm, Jayj!—_I'm just saying that this… probably _isn't…_ what they intended when they gave us a motel room together."

"What ever goes to plan with this job?" I retorted, running my hands along her sides.

Emily lay beneath me in one of those deliberately single beds we are always given while on a case. Her right hand curled in my hair and her left held my waist, pulling me down towards her. Daringly I slipped open the highest button fastened on her blouse and laid a kiss upon the soft skin beneath it, looking up to gauge Emily's reaction. I grinned as her eyes closed and her hand tightened in my hair.

I unfastened a second button, then a third, kissing my way into her cleavage as she sighed beneath me, her hands clinging and stroking, her foot running along the back of my calf. A slow, indulgent moan escaped her lips as my right hand skimmed across a still-clothed breast. I undid the remaining buttons more quickly.

Emily's eyes fell open as I paused to take her in. When our eyes met, I caught an unfamiliar hint of uncertainty in her gaze and leaned up to slide my lips across hers. Our noses brushed, my hand cupped her cheek. "You are beautiful," I assured her, and this time she kissed me, long and smooth, hot and open mouthed. My fingers splayed across her taut white stomach, bare to my touch.

"Jen," she whispered, causing my own stomach to knot with desire.

Then a knock on the door washed her face a deep red and I rolled aside to let her escape into the bathroom. Her open shirt flared out behind her, giving me a briefly tantalising glimpse of the small of her back.

"Garcia, hi," I greeted our visitor, speaking loudly enough for Emily to hear as I opened the door. "I'm sorry about this morning. I was stressed out, I guess. I shouldn't have been so snappy."

My smile must have come across as a guilty one, because Garcia eyed me suspiciously. "We're all going out for drinks and dancing," she explained. "To celebrate the end of the case." She lowered her voice and looked me up and down, offering a conspiratorial wink. "But if you're getting better stress-relief in-house then…."

I was ten shades of red when Emily came out of the bathroom, and I saw immediately why Garcia had suspected me. Although she'd fixed her hair and rebuttoned her blouse, Emily's lips were swollen and her eyes were bright and shiny. She was glowing. To be honest, it aroused me more than I wanted to be aroused with Penelope Garcia in the room.

"You've changed clothes," Emily commented, looking at Garcia. "Are we going out?"

"Just locally," Garcia said, nodding. "Unless of course you've got something better to do!"

Emily shot me the smallest of smiles and then shook her head. "No, that sounds great," she said. "When are we leaving?"

"Oh, half an hour?" Garcia suggested, still looking delightedly all-knowing. As she turned on her heel and left, the words she used were, "I'll give you girls some time to freshen up," but it was clear that she didn't mean 'to freshen up _from the case_'.

Emily smiled at me shyly as the door closed and I stepped forward to slip my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"We were fighting this morning, weren't we?" she reminded me, sounding amused as she ran her hands up my back.

"It wasn't a fight…" I disagreed. Then, "I'm sorry. You scared me, when you woke me up." And I'd pushed her away instead of admitting how afraid I was to lose her—that made even less sense to me now than it had at the time.

"I cut myself earlier, in the bathroom at the station," Emily admitted, a non sequitur. "It wasn't because of this morning. I'm only saying because I think you already guessed, and anyway you would've found out if we kept… umm…"

I didn't move my chin from her shoulder, but I held her tighter. "Why, Em?"

"It was making me anxious, wondering when I was going to do it, when I was inevitably going to disappoint you. It's not bad," she promised. "I just had to… relieve the pressure."

"This… What's happening between us, is it okay? Is it too fast for you?" I blushed. "I don't even know if you're properly…? You know…?"

"I'm not gay, if that's what you mean," Emily said, and now she pulled back to look at me, raising a hand to my warm, pink cheek. "I've never dated a woman, Jen. But then I can't say I'm not turned on by you." Her fingers trailed down my neck wonderingly. "Because I am… _so_ turned on by you…"

This was not doing much to help stem my blush. "I— It's the same for me," I said quietly.

"Shall we get ready to go?" Emily asked. "You know what Pen will assume if we don't turn up."

I did. And I couldn't really say I didn't wish it were true.

* * *

"So, is Emily a good kisser?" was the first thing Penelope Garcia asked when she got me alone. I had volunteered to collect a first round of drinks from the bar, and when Garcia offered to help me carry them I knew I was in for an interrogation.

"I don't want to talk about it, Pen," I pleaded.

"Oh, but there is an _it_, isn't there!" Garcia laughed with a wiggle of her eyebrows. "I knew it! So tell me already, because she looks like she'd be a sensational kisser! Dark, brooding, reserved, but sexy as hell in bed…"

I groaned as I paid the bartender and rolled my eyes at his lewd expression. He was clearly listening in. "Okay, so she is. She's amazing," I admitted. "All right?"

Garcia squealed gleefully and a little too loudly. "Oh my god, how scandalous!"

"Nobody else knows," I replied, hushing her. "It's not even really a thing, it's just… a couple of times."

"A couple of times making out or a couple of times having sex?" Garcia asked, completely serious and expecting an answer. I wanted to crawl into a hole to hide my embarrassment.

"Just making out…"

"Well it must have been good, because I swear when you opened the door you looked—"

"Garcia, do we have to talk about this?!"

Garcia only laughed again. "I'm happy for you, stupid!" she chastised me. "I think it's great! …Although you two make an unfairly hot couple."

"We're not a couple," I replied automatically.

"I dunno, you got pretty defensive over her this morning," Garcia pointed out with a wink. "Admit it, you're head over heels, right?"

"I don't want her going off with some sleezeball," I compromised.

"Or with any guy at all, right?" Garcia said. Then she laughed. "Well, I've gotta say, Emily's a step up from that Will LaMontagne!"

I started gathering drinks in my arms as the bartender made up the last one, and thankfully Garcia relented with the teasing as she picked up her half and we walked back towards the group. She was nosy but she knew how and when to be subtle. Emily gave me a sympathetic look as I slid into the booth beside her and I knew she was imagining the grilling Garcia had subjected me to.

I wanted to dance with her. I couldn't here, now, with the whole team watching, but I realised that I wanted to. I wanted to take her out, just her and me, to eat and drink and dance all night. I wanted to really, properly, date her—something I'd never felt the urge to do with a woman before. I felt her hand brush my leg under the table gently before reaching up to lift her drink to her lips, and I found myself smiling. I ignored Garcia's knowing gaze.

"To a case solved and a child saved," Rossi offered a toast.

We all raised our glasses, but I didn't want to think about the case tonight. After seeing the way Emily had empathised with that suicidal little girl, I knew I had a lot more nightmares coming. But then, you always do with this job.

"So, Ally James filed charges against her husband. He and Lea Hawkin's father are in custody," Morgan remembered. "What about the others?"

"Once that happened, things were resolved pretty well," Hotch explained. "We gave a press conference about the arrests and Sarah Johnson's mother came into the station to lay charges not long afterwards. As for Amanda Malley's mother, no one's seen her since the memorial service. Without her evidence, we don't have enough to arrest her husband, but the local PD is going to keep an eye on him. The best we can hope is that Mrs Malley has just packed a bag and is out there making a fresh start."

"That's not going to be easy," Emily pointed out, "Especially when she has her daughter's death to come to terms with. Are we looking for her?"

"We haven't got any reason to arrest her," Rossi replied, shrugging, "But there's a small effort being made, just to see if she's okay. She's got a mother and brother living in Washington, we hope she's headed there."

"And not thinking of killing herself as well," Reid added, voicing the unspoken fear we all felt.

"What will happen to Tabitha?" I asked. "She's going to need a lot of help to get through this."

Hotch nodded seriously. "She's been checked over by a doctor and cleared to leave with her mother. I got the impression they weren't going to stay in town long either."

"A new place, new memories—it's probably exactly what they need," Emily agreed.

"You and JJ did a good job with her," Hotch told her. It was a rare compliment, and yet it seemed like more than that. My heart sank as I realised that Tabitha could easily have mentioned the scars Emily showed her to Hotch. Yet Emily didn't seem bothered, so perhaps I was reading too far into things.

"It mightn't be easy from now on," she said. "But at least she's got a chance."

"Speaking of taking chances," Morgan said, standing. "Who's up for a dance?"

Emily immediately rose to join him.

"Just what I need," she sighed, letting him lead the way.

I glanced at Reid, who looked surprised, then happy, and we also got up.

It was a good night in all. We didn't speak about the case again—only danced and drank and teased. I won every game of darts I agreed to play, to the astonishment of every man in the room, and although we didn't discuss it, both Emily and I remained after the others left.

We were a couple of the last people dancing. We stayed right to the end of the night when the slow songs start to play, dragging it out for all the people who don't want to leave, who wish the night would never end. In a small club in a town we didn't know, with our team already back at the motel, Emily and I fell into one another. Our bodies moved on the dance floor as though they were one, her arms around my neck, mine around her waist. We stood close, leaned our cheeks together and closed our eyes, swaying in time. I tried to slow my heart, which was beating too fast. It felt like everyone in the room was watching us, although most of the people left at this time were, like us, too caught up in their partners to be concerned with anything else. Still, it took me a while to fully settle into Emily, and I know she felt it the moment I did because she brought me closer encouragingly and ran her lips along my neck.

"You look beautiful tonight," she murmured, and I could feel the vibrations of her throat against mine.

"So do you," I told her. Her smile broadened when I shivered. We both knew it wasn't because I was cold.

"Can we do this again, at home?" she asked, and again I could hear uncertainty tinging her voice at the edge.

I pulled back a little to look into her eyes and answered her question with a question. "Are you asking me out?"

"Would you say yes if I were?" Another question, this one accompanied by a smile. She already knew the answer and I replied without hesitation.

"Yes."

"Then I am," Emily said, winding her fingers through my hair, never looking away.

"Then, yes," I repeated. "I'd love to go out with you."

We danced, undisturbed, until closing time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

That last night at the motel, Emily and I slept with our two single beds pushed together. Her front to my back, her arms around my waist. Before she fell asleep, she slipped her hand beneath my t-shirt and drew chaste circles around my stomach. I sighed and she smiled, her lips moving against the nape of my neck. Emily loves my neck. With closed eyes, my fingers ran the course of her arms. I taught myself the rise and fall of her flesh so that when my eyes opened it no longer surprised me. At intervals I kissed her scars, pressed my lips or my cheek against them. I wanted to make up for the morning I woke up and pushed them away. We barely spoke but eventually we slept. In the morning we pushed the beds apart again.

* * *

It's not a long drive from where we worked the case to where my parents live, so I asked Hotch for a few days' leave. He didn't ask questions because, like the profiler he is, he already knew the reason. Emily did ask, and I told her I wanted to visit my sister's grave. When she kissed me goodbye it was long and slow and sweet and everything I wanted. I wished she could come with me, yet I saw her off at the airport with the others.

I didn't warn my parents to expect me and it was a surprise to them when I pulled up. I'd been in such a daze; it was almost a surprise to me too. Of course they were happy to see me, but they were also cautious. I felt a stab of guilt that I visited so rarely they had to assume it was a cause for concern when I did. Well, maybe it was, in a way. I wasn't myself.

Mom ushered me straight into the sitting room and left Dad with me while she disappeared into the kitchen. His eyes were curious but kind. He hadn't changed.

"It's so good to see you, button," he told me, leaning over to clasp my hand. "I'm glad that work of yours is finally giving you a holiday."

"It's not really a holiday," I admitted. "I was in the area working."

"Oh, I know, I saw you on the television," Dad said. "Those girls dressed like angels. You caught the woman who did it, didn't you?"

"Yeah." I smiled. "We did."

Dad nodded his approval. "Good work," he said. "So you really just popped down to say hi? You seem a little… I don't know, button, a little _off_."

"I thought I'd drop in on Ros," I admitted. "It's getting close to her anniversary and this case—"

"You don't have to justify visiting your sister to me, Jenny" Dad interrupted. "We all do it. I'm glad you're home."

Is it just my dad, or is it dads in general? He always knows what to say. I'd missed his gruffly soothing voice. It made me want to confide in him.

"I'm worried about a friend," I confessed. "She has… She does some of those things that Ros did. And nobody knows except me."

Dad's brow furrowed in consideration. "Can you help her?" he asked, straight to the point.

"Maybe, dad, I don't know," I replied, a little panic edging its way into my voice. It was so hard to be calm and rational for Emily. Hearing him take on the burden of my decision briefly made me want to drop it, leave it with him, and run away. "I think I make her happy, but…"

"But you can be happy at times and still want to die when it passes," Dad finished knowingly. That's how it had been with Rosaline.

"She says she doesn't want that, but I'm scared, Dad… I— I really care about her." I blushed and ducked my head. "…What's mom doing?"

"Cooking for an army, I'll bet, now that you're home," Dad suggested with a fond squeeze of my hand. "Tell me about this girl, button."

I met his eyes but I couldn't stem the blush. My _blonde-haired blue-eyed baby blush,_ he used to say—I was famous for turning as bright as a tomato at the slightest provocation. I was doing that now. "No, Dad…"

His gaze was soft, accepting. "It's all right, Jenny. Any fool could tell you have feelings for her. I might be old but I'm still maturing. I can be okay with that, if that's who you are."

I was out of words. I could only squeeze his hand tighter as the tears began to fall. He pulled me into a hug, and Mom, of course, chose that moment to poke her head into the room.

"Gracious, are we okay in here?" she asked, concerned. She held a pan of gravy in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other in true motherly fashion. God forbid we be allowed to eat out of the packet like savages. It made me smile, despite myself.

"Yeah, Mom, we're fine," I told her. "What kind of biscuits are those?"

"You know full well," Mom replied, shaking her head. "I always keep a packet of your favourites just in case you decide to come home."

I wiped my eyes as she leaned down to place the plate on the coffee table and kiss my hairline sweetly.

"Gravy smells great, Mom," I said.

"I know what my baby likes," Mom chuckled, pleased with the compliment, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing in shock as she turned away and Dad whispered in my ear, "_No, she doesn't_."

"So, this girl, what's her name?" he asked when Mom had returned to the kitchen.

"Emily," I said, and it felt strange to say it to him.

"And she knows you… well, you _like_ her?" he prompted, "As more than a friend?"

"Yes…"

"And she…?"

"Yeah, Dad, I think she does."

I watched him fight his fatherly discomfort at the prospect of my being in a relationship and was glad to see it was no more pronounced than when I'd told him about Will.

"Well then," he said, squaring his shoulders. "You should've brought her down to meet us."

"What will Mom say?" I asked, more anxiously than I meant to let on. I hadn't even realised I'd been worried about her reaction until now. It had all happened so quickly. "I've never heard her say anything but I guess I just assumed you'd both… well, you'd be unhappy."

"Listen, button," Dad said seriously. "This girl is important to you, and you're important to us. I don't know what your mother will say at first because we've never discussed it, but in the end you are our daughter and that is enough."

I clung to a biscuit and tried to keep the tears back. "Dad, thank you."

He smiled. "Button, we love you," he promised. "No matter what. But, of course, this gives me a vested interest in making sure that girl of yours is okay."

"You think I should tell somebody," I guessed.

Dad let out a quiet hum of contemplation. "She's not a child, I don't see why you need to go and dob her in," he said. "But maybe you could encourage her to seek help on her own, outside of work."

"She's really private," I said uncertainly.

Dad didn't argue. Instead he stood slowly. I noticed that he gave his joints a moment to adjust before walking over to the mantelpiece; he hadn't used to do that. From the mantle he plucked a picture of Rosaline—my favourite picture of her, one that I'd taken. "It's horrible," he said, "What wonderful people don't see themselves as good enough for this world. Really, button, it's the other way around. They're too good for us. They deserve better."

I stood too and placed a hand over his on Rosaline's photograph. "Dad," I sighed, "There isn't any better than you."

Again, the sad smile.

"Your Emily is lucky to have you, button," he told me. "You'll figure something out."

* * *

I didn't tell Mom about Emily during that visit. Maybe I should have. Since I only planned to stay the night, I could easily have run away if it went badly. But, honestly, I wasn't ready. I wouldn't have told Dad if he hadn't guessed, I'd just been lucky. It made me wonder what it was going to be like at home, dating a woman. Would people look at us strangely in the street? Or were people above all that now? I'd thought of myself as straight my whole life, so how could I be anything else? What would that even mean?

After finishing the case on Friday and spending Saturday with my parents, I decided not to hang around. Emily met me at the airport at 10am on Sunday and my fears subsided briefly when I saw her. Dressed casually in a red long-sleeved shirt and jeans, she looked beautiful but she must have been overheating. Did she think she could get away with never wearing a short-sleeved shirt again? How? It was something I hadn't thought about, since she'd been wearing tank tops and t-shirts when we were alone. I wondered if her affinity for long sleeves made her suspicious to others or if that was something people just didn't notice. Lea's friends had thought it was a style choice, I remembered.

Emily gave me a brief, shy kiss as we reached one another. It still felt deliciously naughty and a little scary to kiss her in public.

"How was home?" she asked easily.

"It was good," I replied. "My mom cooked and my dad told stories. I don't know why it's been so long since I went back."

"And your sister?"

I shrugged. To be honest, Rosaline was probably the reason why. I had gone to her grave looking for peace, answers, but I'd left in frustrated tears. "As expected," I admitted. "It doesn't really get easier." I met her eyes, hoping she'd get the point. _If you leave me, I am never getting over you_.

Emily smiled a sympathetic half-smile and loaded my go-bag and laptop case into the back of her car for me. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I thought we could stop and get brunch. Unless you'd rather I just drop you back at your place?"

Realistically, I probably could have used the time and space to think, but I didn't particularly want to be alone. "Brunch sounds great," I agreed, and now Emily smiled fully.

* * *

It's strange—strolling down a street you've only ever driven through or traversed at a brisk walk. It's even stranger to do it hand in hand with someone you usually walk alongside arguing case points and profiles. Even in its newness, I didn't dislike the experience.

It was Emily who reached for my hand. She did it furtively, without meeting my eyes, in the middle of a story about her childhood in Italy—the part that hadn't made her want to kill herself, apparently. There was no way to tell from her face or manner if taking my hand had been a simple and natural action for her or if it had been the result of careful risk assessment. To be safe, I followed her lead and didn't acknowledge the gesture.

And so it was Emily and I: Emily in a shirt and jeans—blue, not black—and me in a blouse and skirt, plain but shorter and freer than I wore for work. We each had a handbag over our shoulders and I wore strappy sandals, not solid heels. There was no chance of chasing an unsub down a dark alley, no case to hide behind today. If anyone were paying us enough attention, it would have been like a public debut.

Still, the questions lingered in my mind. She'd asked me on a date, but were we dating? What would I call her now? Would I still introduce her as my colleague if I met a friend in the street? It hadn't been long, I reminded myself. It was still so new. I felt a stab of uncertainty about opening up to my Dad. I hadn't meant to tell him.

"Are you okay, Jayj?"

We'd stopped walking, I realised, outside a familiar looking café I'd never stopped to eat at. Emily's expression as she watched me teetered between concern and amusement.

I smiled ruefully. "I'm great—sorry, Em! Here?"

"If that's okay?" Emily said. She sounded casual, as if it were an arbitrary thing for her, and yet I sensed that she was uncertain. I was getting better at that.

I squeezed her hand. "Perfect," I said.

We chose a table that was out of the way, towards the back. Both of us prefered it that way, less fuss. It meant we could talk more easily. Once or twice we even kissed across the table like teenagers on a first date.

We'd just received our coffees when Rossi entered. Probably the same love of privacy propelled him towards the back of the room, towards Emily and I, yet he didn't seem to notice us as he seated himself nearby.

"Do you want to go?" Emily whispered, following my gaze.

"Of course not. We've already ordered and I want my pancakes," I answered firmly. "Besides he's not even facing us!" I reached across the table to touch her arm briefly, proving the point. "Forget about him."

And we did. There was no more kissing over the table, but we resumed our conversation, while Rossi ordered a coffee, pulled out a tablet and began to read, apparently waiting for no one.

The pancakes were amazing. The kind you always see on the cover of cookbooks: plump and fluffy, drizzled with berry compote and honey, and dusted with icing sugar. It was, I reasoned, a combination of breakfast and lunch. It could be nothing short of spectacular. Emily's unguarded laugh as my culinary masterpiece arrived made my heart swell. Between my awe of her and my awe of the pancakes, apparently my expression was hilarious. I laughed along with her. Unfortunately this was what drew Rossi's attention to us.

Catching the familiar timbre of our laughter cutting through the dull chatter of the café, he turned his head and immediately recognised us, waving.

I have no way of knowing just how red my face turned at that moment, but judging from the pulsing heat of my cheeks and the looks I got from both Rossi and Emily, it may have been the most severe blush of my life. I don't know why it should have been so bad. For all Rossi knew, Emily and I were only catching up over a meal, gossiping about prospective romantic partners, even. It wasn't unheard of. For all he knew _until_ he saw me blush, that is. Because nobody gets as red as I got then over brunch with a colleague.

I don't think I've ever seen Rossi so torn between his love of a scandal and his deep respect for privacy. "Those look fabulous," he eventually said, indicating my pancakes. "Although I've been told I make a mean stack myself."

"Are you offering to cook us breakfast, Rossi?" Emily returned at him, her voice miraculously light and casual.

I could almost hear the line, '_No, you two are sweet enough already_,' rolling off that old tease's tongue, and yet he refrained. "Perhaps," he said. "But it would have to be for a very special occasion."

Blessedly, a waitress chose that moment to glide innocently by with Emily's order of Eggs Florentine, and Rossi seized the opportunity to ask for his bill, having had only one coffee.

"I'll leave you two to your meal," he farewelled us ambiguously and Emily and I waited until he had left the café to react fully.

Well, what was there to do? We couldn't make Rossi unmake the assumptions he must have made about us. We could only sit back and laugh at our own complete and utter lack of subtlety thus far.

"First Garcia and now Rossi," I sighed, but I found it bothered me less than I thought it would. I couldn't keep the amusement out of my tone.

"It looks that way," Emily said, and she was smiling too. "Jen, I don't mind if you don't."

"I don't mind," I promised, surprising myself.

"I think we can trust them to be discreet—neither is the type to spread it around," Emily added.

"In Rossi's case, I think that's to do with generating good karma," I joked. "At least, if it's true about all the women he's been with at the bureau."

Emily laughed. "You're right," she admitted, her eyes crinkling joyfully at the edges. "We shouldn't be silly about it…"

"No," I agreed.

"…But as long as he's gone, I think this could be okay."

She glanced comically from side to side then, before leaning across the table to give me another kiss. I reached up to touch her cheek before she pulled away. Her skin was soft and warm beneath my fingers.

"Yeah," I agreed shyly. "That's great."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN./ I almost apologise for this… except that it was unexpectedly fun to write! Consider this the beginning of a new episode :) –Bec xx**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

It was after midnight, three weeks later—the last time I saw Reid before he disappeared.

It was such a normal evening until that point. I was lying on my couch, my legs slung comfortably across Emily's lap. I was reading _The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie_; she was watching a French movie without subtitles. At some point she had strategically positioned a bowl of chocolate covered raisins between my knees and she rested her hands on my legs at either side of it. Occasionally she turned her head to tease me in French, enjoying my utter lack of comprehension.

Neither of us had expected anyone to come knocking at that time. I asked Em if she'd ordered something in, to which she provided a blank stare and a shake of her head in response. She placed the bowl of raisins beside her on the couch so I could get up to see who it was. I checked the peephole, and even from that distorted perspective I could see that Reid was distressed. I let him in hastily.

"Spence! Is something wrong?"

Reid didn't reply—just walked straight past me into the living room. I followed and caught sight of Emily, concerned, pulling a cardigan on over her tank top.

"Reid, are you okay?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest modestly.

Still Reid didn't reply. His movements were jerky, anxious, but his eyes had a dulled out effect. He looked around my living room like he wasn't sure how he'd got there. In that state, I wasn't sure how he'd done it, myself.

"Some water, Em?" I suggested, taking Reid's elbow and helping him sit. Emily nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. I set the bowl of raisins aside and picked a throw blanket off the armchair. He didn't take it when I held it out to him, so I covered him with it myself.

Emily returned with a glass of water and had to place it directly in Reid's hands.

"Spence," I tried. "Hey, Spence? Can you tell me where you've been?"

I looked up at Emily when he didn't reply.

The line of her lips was tight with worry. "Reid, are you using again?"

His eyes were big and then small, big and then small—innocent, then suspicious in turn. His expression shifted faster than I could keep track of it. His hands began to shake violently and I removed the glass from them.

"Call an ambulance," I told Emily. "Then Hotch."

She didn't question my judgment and I soon heard her voice on the phone and the quietly tinny response of the operator. I tuned them out.

"Reid, can you tell me anything at all?" I asked, trying to keep calm.

He seemed to let out a whine, no words. When he heard the siren he almost bolted in fear and Emily and I had to hold him down.

"Hotch is meeting us at the hospital," Emily explained, her voice brisk and efficient, if breathless. "We'll call the rest of the team when we know what's going on."

The sirens stopped but Reid didn't relax. He continued to jerk and stutter unintelligibly.

"Spence. Spence, it's going to be okay," I promised, and for a second he grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye and I saw something there, something he was trying to communicate to me, but then it was gone.

Again we heard pounding on the door. The ambulance, we thought.

I opened the door, felt my head crack against something solid, heard a scream and then nothing else.

* * *

"_Hey— Hey, she's waking up!"_

I knew I was in hospital before I opened my eyes. You can always tell. The burning antiseptic smell, the beeping, the people speaking in hushed tones, the orange glow behind closed eyes that comes from a room too well lit.

It was Morgan who'd spoken. He and Rossi were standing nearby, but he came closer and sat when he saw me stirring.

"JJ, what happened!" he blurted out, and my heart felt cold. If he didn't know, then what had happened to Reid and Emily?

I tried to speak but my voice wouldn't work. Indicating my problem in gestures, I allowed Morgan to tilt water carefully into my dry mouth and coughed before trying again.

"Reid," I croaked. "He—"

"Reid was at your place, are you sure?" Morgan asked quickly.

I was shocked. "What do you mean?" I pleaded. "Why don't you _know_ that? We called Hotch! Haven't you been to my place?"

My breath was coming too fast, I couldn't stop it, and Morgan had to put a hand on my shoulder and wait for me to calm down enough to continue speaking. He was trying to comfort me, but the tenseness of his grip only made it worse.

"Ok, Jayj, hang on," he backtracked, obviously trying to keep me as stable as possible. "Maybe Hotch has a better idea what's going on. We haven't had a chance to talk to him properly yet. Our orders were to wait here until you woke up."

I gulped in a breath. "Reid came," I whispered hoarsely, too quickly, "In the middle of the night. And Emily— What about Emily! Oh my god, please, just tell me what's going on! One of you!"

"We have Emily, JJ," Rossi intervened. "She was shot but she's going to be fine. Hotch is talking to her doctors now. He'll let us know when we can see her."

_Her doctors. _I tried to process this. "Shot? How could Emily have been shot? Rossi, we're not even working a _case_ right now! What's happening to us?"

"JJ, please listen, sweetheart," Morgan begged. His face was collected but his voice conveyed distress. "You said Reid was there, and Hotch said Emily called him about Reid showing up addled, but we couldn't find any trace of him at your apartment and we can't reach him. We need to know if we have to consider Reid missing—"

"Oh my god," I interjected again. The pain in my head was pulsing, blazing like music played so loud you can't think

"Can you remember what the three of you were doing?" Morgan asked.

"We weren't— I don't know—" I couldn't think. _Why couldn't I think?!_ "I'm— I'm sorry, Morgan—"

I looked between the two profilers desperately and it was Rossi that held my eye, his expression sombre. Without looking at Morgan, he moved closer to sit on the edge of my bed. "JJ," he entreated me. "I really don't want to out you but—"

"For God's sake, Rossi, I don't care," I cried. "That's not important now!"

Morgan looked between us, straining to understand.

"I'm going to say this once," Rossi told Morgan, speaking quickly but with a level tone. "You're not going to ask questions, you're just going to accept it, all right?"

"Yeah. But Rossi, what—?"

"That would be a question," Rossi interrupted him. Then he explained, "JJ and Emily have been seeing each other. I've known for a few weeks. I got the impression it was recent." His eyes sought confirmation from me and I nodded quickly, the movement sending another wave of pain through my skull. Morgan barely reacted, true to his word, and Rossi turned to me. "I'm saying this because I'm assuming you and Emily were already together when Reid turned up. He surprised you."

"It was after twelve and he hadn't called first," I whimpered. "Of course we were surprised." The pain was getting worse but I couldn't risk taking anything to ease it; I didn't want to sleep or forget. "I think he was using. It might have been Dilaudid again but I don't know. Did you really not find him?"

"JJ," Morgan directed me. "Try to remember what happened when Reid arrived. Exactly what happened."

"Morgan, I can't. I'm not just a victim on a case—"

"You have to," Morgan's tone left no space for argument. "JJ, where were you? It was midnight, so were you in bed? Close your eyes and tell me."

My heart was beating faster than I thought was safe, but I did as I was told.

"Please try to relax, JJ," he said, softening a little. I did try, but the tears had already started to fall. "It works best if you're relaxed."

Knowing that didn't make it any easier. A few deep breaths were all I could manage towards calm. "We were still awake. Downstairs, on the couch," I said. "Emily was watching a movie. I was reading. We didn't have a case so we weren't planning on getting up early." A thought struck me. "What time is it?"

"Don't worry about right now," Morgan deflected. "Tell me about sitting on the couch with Emily. What is she watching?"

The breaths were coming more easily now, but my throat remained tight. "She's watching a French film," I said. "It's quiet because she doesn't want to disturb me. I don't know what's going on but I actually don't mind the background noise. I like their voices. I'm reading, but not really… I'm lying back, my legs are in her lap. She's eating chocolate covered raisins. She… throws one at me." I pause, taking refuge in the memory of Emily smiling down at me, almost hearing her openhearted laughter. "I don't think she's entirely focused on the movie either. She keeps flirting with me in French. I don't know what she's saying."

"When does Reid arrive?" Morgan asked, his voice as even as he could make it.

I sank down into the memory. "She's paused the movie. We're talking. I know it's late. After midnight."

"What are you talking about?"

"Private things," I replied, briefly unsettled.

"Sex?" Morgan infers. He says the word unapologetically but not voyeuristically.

I shake my head. "Nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's not relevant," I insisted, opening my eyes. Seeing the look on Morgan's face, I closed them again and tried to reimmerse myself in the memory, wanting to move on.

"You're involved, JJ, and you've been knocked around a hell of a lot," Morgan pressed. "I'm not trying to make this harder than it already is, but you've got to tell us everything and let us decide what is and isn't relevant. We're doing this so we can find Reid and catch the son of a bitch who did this to you."

I felt tears begin to leak from the corners of my eyes, gravity pulling down toward the bed. I squeezed my eyes tighter shut but it was no use. I couldn't stop. "It's private," I cried weakly. "I can't— It's not relevant, I swear!"

"JJ." This was Hotch's voice, he must have just stepped in. "What you were talking about when Reid arrived—does it have to do with Emily hurting herself?"

Morgan's voice, which he had been working to keep under control since I'd awoken, now rose several levels. "Hotch, what are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Derek, calm down," Rossi mediated, but it was clear that Morgan's first response was going to be one of anger, and consequently a wave of nausea swept over me. I began to retch, drawing their attention. Moving quickly, a pair of hands, I think Hotch's, rolled me onto my side, while someone else fetched the trashcan for me to vomit into.

"You've known s-since the case in Pennsylvania," I accused Hotch, my voice fading and my eyes opening, once I'd finished.

"I heard from Tabitha Burnam, yes," he acknowledged, his tone level. "She may have saved that girl's life by opening up to her—not just at the time, but in the long term as well. Because it was clear that you were aware of Emily's situation, I made the decision to trust you to monitor it for the time being."

I nodded more carefully this time, aware of my fragile head. "Thank you," I croaked. "I was— That _is_ what we were talking about when Reid knocked."

Morgan regained control of his emotions and his voice. "Jayj, I want you to think back. Close your eyes and tell me how many times Reid knocks."

"_Two weeks," Emily told me. "It's been two full weeks since I last cut myself."_

"_Em…"_

"_Part of me thinks it's just because I'm always with you—when am I going to get the chance? But then, honestly, if I really wanted to, I would've found a way."_

What would happen to Emily's streak now?

"He knocks eight times," I said, surprisingly confidently. I could hear the sound in my mind. "It's erratic, like he's scared. Or running from something."

"Is there anyone else there with him?" Hotch asked.

"I don't think so..." I tried to see the hallway again, drawing out the few seconds I'd spent looking around before Reid barged in. "No. There's no one there." My stomach knotted. "I think he's on drugs. I think maybe he's taking Dilaudid again. I can't figure out how he even made it to my place."

"You don't think he could have driven?" Rossi confirmed.

"There's no way," I said firmly. "He either walked or he got a taxi… but I didn't hear anything. That said, cars come by often enough. I just wasn't listening out for anyone."

"What's Emily doing?" Morgan asked.

"There's a black cardigan lying across the arm of the couch," I remember. "It's mine. Reid walks right past me without saying anything and when I turn around I see her putting the cardigan on." I felt tears stinging again. "She's doing better. She doesn't want anyone to know…"

"Does Reid see her arms?" someone asked. Panic was rising within me; it was getting harder to distinguish between speakers.

"I don't think so," I said uncertainly. "It doesn't look like Reid is taking anything in. He's erratic, his eyes are kind of glazed…"

"When do you phone me?" That voice must have been Hotch.

"After Emily gets him a glass of water," I remembered. "He can barely hold it."

"Why not call an ambulance if it's so bad?"

I froze at that. "But we did," I said, opening my eyes. "I made Emily call the ambulance first. I could hear her talking and a bit of the sound of the dispatcher at the end of the line."

"JJ, no ambulance ever arrived," Hotch told me. "When you didn't turn up or answer your phones, I sent one myself."

"T-that's not right," I said. The room had begun to spin. Nothing was in focus. My head ached like it was ready to split apart. "I heard the sirens," I insisted. "They freaked Reid out. We had to hold him down."

"Is it possible that Reid was drugged against his will," Morgan asked. "And he knew someone using an ambulance was coming after him."

"I guess," I whispered. "He— He was so out of it, Derek. We were so worried about him, we weren't thinking about anything else."

"So you thought he was relapsing with his drug use," Hotch confirmed.

"It's what I assumed!" I knew I sounded defensive and that nobody was blaming me but I couldn't help it. "I mean I know he struggling, after Emily went away. That whole time, he was finding it really rough. But he'd got his one-year medallion. He was doing so well! So I don't know." I gulped. "I don't know."

At that moment a nurse slipped into the room and looked surprised to see me awake and talking. She began to check the medical equipment I was hooked up to. "I'll let the doctor know you're up," she said. "I just came to tell Agent Hotchner that Emily Prentiss is awake now."

"Take me to her," I insisted, starting to push myself up. _Fuck_. It was too fast. The room span and I felt a hand on my arm, steadying me. More slowly, I forced myself to sit. "Please," I said.

"We'll want to talk to her without you there," Hotch told me seriously. "To see what she remembers independently."

"For God's sake at least let me see her and warn her you all know about us, and about her," I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice even though I knew it was petty of me, with Reid missing.

Hotch exchanged a look with the nurse. "Can we arrange that?" he asked. "As quickly as possible?"

The nurse agreed reluctantly, she'd probably been instructed to do exactly as the FBI asked. She left and returned quickly with a wheelchair. I felt a burst of energy.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN./ Man, my procrastination levels are through the roof. I am addicted to writing this! Reviews make my world go round, by the way, and could encourage speedier delivery of chapters! –Bec xx**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

In retrospect, although the fact that Emily had been shot was definitely the most pertinent information about her condition, I felt like Hotch could have warned me that she had also sustained a broken arm, a cut lip, and as many bruises as I—apparently—had. I still hadn't seen myself in the mirror but I was going to avoid it now if possible, given the way that Emily winced when she saw me.

"JJ, your head," was the first thing that came out of her mouth.

So it looked as bad as it felt, then.

"It's fine," I lied. "Barely hurts."

I glanced up at Hotch, who had wheeled me in, and he seemed to understand, pushing me right up beside Emily. Her shoulder was bandaged where the bullet had entered and exited, thankfully fairly cleanly, and her arm on the opposite side was already in a cast. It made me wonder again just how long I'd been out.

"Can you give us five minutes?" I asked and Hotch nodded.

"That's all I can give you, though," he apologised, and he left the room.

"There's no way that doesn't hurt," Emily rebuked me as the door closed. "I saw how hard your head slammed into the wall. It's amazing that thick skull of yours is still in one piece."

I shook my head, still careful not to move it too quickly. That wasn't important, I wasn't important. "Em—Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi all know about you," I blurted out. I didn't have to clarify what I meant. "I didn't tell them but—"

"It doesn't matter, Jayj."

"They know about us too." I felt my eyes fill with tears. I guess I assumed that, if everybody knew, she'd want to end it; that this would be the wake-up call she needed to realise I wasn't good enough for her and that dating me was only going to cause her problems.

But Emily shook her head. "It _doesn't matter_," she repeated. Slowly, almost painstakingly, she raised her good hand and laid it over mine, resting on the arm of my wheelchair. "Thank God you're all right," she said, more quietly. "Reid's... Reid's not here, is he? They got him?"

"They?" I repeated. I hadn't realised there'd been more than one person. I couldn't even recall the face of the one who attacked me.

"There were two of them," Emily's voice was strained. She wouldn't admit it, but she was clearly in a lot of pain. "I tried to keep them off him, but I didn't have my gun, and Reid was so useless… He just wailed like a little kid. God, it's easy to forget when he knows what he knows, but he really is just a kid, isn't he?"

"We're going to find him," I promised, squeezing her hand. "But, Em—Hotch and the others are going to need to talk through all this with you, and they don't want me in here when they do."

"It's fine," Emily told me. "I'm ready now. I can do it." She removed her hand from mine and used it as leverage to try and push herself up into a sitting position. I knew it was a bad idea before she'd got an inch off the bed and I told her so. It didn't take much more for her to give in. She sank back into her pillow with a low moan. "Don't you feel like you need to be out there looking for him, Jayj?"

"Of course I do," I replied. "But what good are we like this? The best thing we can do is stay in bed, heal up, and tell the others what we know."

"Reid didn't know I'd be there with you, Jen," Emily pointed out. "He was coming to you for a reason. Whether it was because he thought you could help him or because he ran into trouble in the area… That's what we need to find out."

I looked into her eyes sadly. "I know… And I was such a great help, wasn't I?"

"Shh…" Emily whispered, reaching out her good arm to touch my hair gently.

Exhausted and needing comfort, I leaned forward and lay my head on top of my arms, folded on Emily's bed, where she could easily reach me. I closed my eyes and indulged in a brief moment of denial. We were back at home, still on the couch. Her hand stroked and combed through my hair. _Two weeks free, that's amazing_, I hadn't got a chance to tell her. _I'm so damn proud of you..._

"I'm sorry, JJ," this was Hotch again, at the door. Our time was up. I didn't protest, just pushed myself backwards with a puff of exertion until my back fell against the back of the wheelchair. I still wasn't strong enough to wheel myself, so Hotch came over. "Wait," I stalled. "Em, the others are coming in now. Do you want your blanket pulled up over your arms?"

Emily knew her secret was out, but she nodded gratefully all the same, and Hotch did it for her without being asked. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat their body. For Emily, who was so private, there must have been no worse prospect than being examined at her most vulnerable by her fellow profilers. I couldn't let myself forget just how brave she was being, just because she wasn't complaining about it.

"It'll be okay," I promised. And then, for the first time, and despite Hotch's presence, I added, "I love you."

Emily's eyes were paradoxically both shielded and searching as they met mine, but she said nothing. That was okay. I knew that Emily needed time to process how she felt. I gave her a reassuring smile and gestured for Hotch to wheel me out.

We found Garcia pacing in the hall. What little colour her face possessed at that point drained away as she caught sight of me.

"JJ," she whispered, kneeling to hug me desperately. "Are you okay!?"

"I'm fine," I told her, wincing as she disturbed a cluster of bruises on my torso that I hadn't yet discovered.

Garcia stood and directed her attention to Hotch. "Is she telling the truth?" she asked seriously.

"JJ and Emily are _both_ going to make full recoveries," he assured her. "We'll get them out of here as quickly as we can. Now I need to get Rossi and Morgan and talk to Emily," Hotch said. "Garcia, would you mind—?"

"No problemo, sir! I will take Emily back to her room and get myself set up in there," Garcia preempted him, and Hotch nodded solemnly before disappearing down the corridor. "I'm sorry I took so long," Garcia continued to me, her voice twisting with anxiety as she began to push me along. "Reid had me miles and miles away looking at a computer for him. He said I couldn't do it from the FBI… _W__hy_ do I _always_ let you guys talk me into things like that?"

"You were doing work for Reid?" I repeated, shocked. "Does Hotch know?"

"Hotch already knows _all_ the details, my flower, and I relayed them to Morgan and Rossi too, while you were in with Emily," Garcia promised. "To be honest, at first I thought it was a normal family computer he had me looking at. The system was so well designed! There was a whole other layer of data almost perfectly hidden!"

"Almost," I repeated knowingly. Between Hotch and Garcia, you couldn't get much closer to omniscience.

"Yeah, almost," said Garcia, leaning forward to open the door to my room. "But one wrong move and the whole thing would've corrupted on me. It was pretty risky. I told Reid I didn't like my chances and he said… _He_ said he didn't like anyone's chances better than mine. And I did it. I did… Poor kid, I just want to know where he is!"

Garcia helped me stand and get back into bed slowly. I made every effort to keep my face impassive during this process. The pain I felt was a distraction but it didn't need to be distracting anyone but me.

"Once I hacked my way into the underground of the system, if you will, that wasn't the end of the booby traps," Garcia explained, taking the seat that Morgan had used earlier. "It took a long time to maneuver through them, and Reid was really strict about the amount of time I could spend in the house. _Jesus_, Jayj—we broke into a house for this! Can you believe it!? But no one has technology like that and isn't up to something shady. Seems like Reid was on the money with this guy, whoever he is."

"So what did you find?" I asked. "You must have got something?"

Garcia had pulled out her own laptop and set it up while she was talking. Now she scrolled through a mass of code that she had apparently been able to copy over. "To begin with, I found a whole lot of money changing hands," she said. "Whatever Reid was looking into it wasn't Pokémon cards, I'll tell you that for free!"

"How much?" I asked and Garcia shook her head.

"Hard to tell the sum of it. There was no time to get everything transferred before had to get out, so I just have bits and pieces," she said. "The way Reid was acting, I didn't want to find out what happened if we were caught. It was in the billions, though. Something _crazy_. Like I said, whatever this was, it was big."

"And these people have got Spence," I assumed, and we both fell silent.

"Had he really been drugged when he got to your place?" Garcia asked, her voice wobbling a little.

"Pen, he was so out of it… He couldn't even talk," I replied quietly, sensitive to her fragile stale.

Garcia let out a sob without stilling her hands on the keyboard. "My poor boy," she cried. "He worked so hard to get past that. It isn't fair!"

"We need to focus on getting him back," I told her. "If we need to, we can help him get past it again when he's home and safe."

"Y-you're right," Garcia agreed. "Reid's phone isn't transmitting, I can't track it."

"We think he was picked up by two guys in an ambulance," I said, "And that Reid might have known they were coming."

"Were the guys who attacked you in uniform?" Garcia asked. "From a specific hospital or ambulance service?"

"I can't remember," I sighed. "I only saw one of them for a second before I went out."

"Can you do that thing where you close your eyes…?"

"It's not magic, Garcia." I rubbed my temples slowly, trying to get past the pain and think. "I was unconscious within seconds of opening the door. Emily was still in the living room with Reid when it happened. She might have seen what they were wearing…"

I watched as Garcia made herself a note to ask.

"What bothers me," I went on, "Is, if this is as big as you say, why did they chance leaving witnesses at all? Anyone working for such big business has got to be well trained; yet all they did was give me a headache. Emily was shot in the shoulder, her arm was broken—enough to stop her resisting, but no one could think that'd be enough to kill either of us."

"So they weren't interested in you, they just wanted Reid," Garcia said, a little nonplussed. "It makes sense. He was the one who was onto them."

"No, it doesn't make sense," I insisted. "If they weren't interested in us, we'd be dead. No criminal gets that rich by showing mercy, leaving witnesses. There's got to be something they want from us."

Garcia looked up, distressed. "I was the one who went out with Reid to check out that computer!" she exclaimed. "Why not come after me?"

It struck me suddenly how vulnerable we were here. Garcia didn't carry a gun and since I hadn't been carrying mine when I'd been attacked, it hadn't arrived at the hospital with me. "Garcia," I ordered. "Go join Hotch and the others."

She looked at me like I was crazy. "I'm not leaving you alone! We have multiple unsubs who may or may not be dressed as medical professionals and we're in a _hospital,_ for crying out loud!"

"What are you going to do if someone comes in?" I asked desperately. "We're sitting ducks in here and neither one of us is armed."

"Then you need to get back in this wheelchair," Garcia's response left no room for argument. "Come on, we'll do it now."

I shifted myself up and allowed Garcia to help me into the chair as quickly as possible. "Emily's room," I directed her. "Don't stop to answer any questions. If someone tries to stop us, you walk faster and don't look back. Got it?"

Garcia nodded quickly. "I've got it," she confirmed, tucking her laptop into the bag over her shoulder.

A man in a suit was waiting for us just outside the door.

"Agent Jareau, my name is Agent James Curtell I've been assigned to protect you," he introduced himself.

Garcia stopped and looked down at me. I didn't know what to tell her; the man's face was unreadable. He may have been one of ours, but he might not have. Either way, he was definitely armed.

"Your badge," I said. "Show it to me slowly."

Curtell did as he was told, a small smile playing on his lips as he pulled a badge out of his breast pocket. _Agent James Daniel Curtell_, it read, and it seemed legitimate. But then, even legitimate IDs could be procured by illegitimate means.

"We're going to see Agent Prentiss," I said firmly.

Curtell nodded, still smiling. "Of course. Emily Prentiss has been moved. I'll take you to her."

I shook my head. "Then I want to call my boss first."

The smile widened. Curtell was enjoying himself, I realised, testing me. It wasn't a good sign.

"Garcia," I directed levelly. "Wheel me back into the room. Don't turn around."

I couldn't block the door before Curtell stepped in. "Of course," he said casually, closing us into the room. "Miss Penelope Garcia. Technical Analyst for the FBI. But you're more than that aren't you? Seems like recently you fancy yourself a spy."

He'd laid his cards on the table. Nobody outside of the BAU should have known about that.

"Tell me," he said. "What makes you want to visit Agent Prentiss when I could take you to Spencer Reid instead?"

I chose my next words carefully. "How's Spencer doing?" I asked.

The amusement on Curtell's face suggested that he knew the playbook I was using as well as I did. "He looks a fair sight worse than you do, Agent Jareau," he replied, his voice still one of perfect politeness and cordiality.

I managed to keep the emotion from showing on my face—I must have been learning from spending so much time with Emily. "And you'd like to take us both to him?" I clarified.

Curtell shook his head, drawing his gun slowly. "Not both. Only you, Agent Jareau."

One of Garcia's hands came to grip my shoulder protectively, almost painfully. "If you think there's any way in _hell_ I'm going to let you take JJ—!" she began, but I shook my head at her.

"Tell me," I addressed Curtell. "There were two men at my place last night. They could have easily taken me as well. Did they mess up?"

"The orders at that time were to secure Doctor Reid," Curtell replied coolly. "Everything went according to plan."

_Orders_. So this wasn't Curtell's game. He and the other two were pawns.

"But the orders have changed," I deduced. "Now you want me. Why?"

Curtell tutted, a look of soft, almost paternal, disappoint on his face. "You're stalling, Agent Jareau. Is that your plan? To wait for rescue?"

"Why don't you explain to me what this is about?" I suggested. "Maybe I'll come willingly."

I think Curtell almost laughed. He seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in affixing a silencer to his weapon. "Agent Jareau, you can barely walk. I wouldn't say you were in a position to argue. If I decide to shoot Penelope Garcia, I can easily sedate you and walk out with no questions asked. All it would take is a flash of my badge."

"But you haven't decided to shoot Penelope," I inferred. "Is that on the condition that I come quietly?"

"It is," Curtell confirmed.

It would be the second time in two days that these men had executed a kidnapping while leaving witnesses. I felt sure that both Garcia and I could facilitate a composite sketch of this man, so why wasn't he concerned? Was it arrogance? Did they think they were uncatchable? Were we being toyed with?

Curtell retrieved two syringes from the pocket of his suit jacket. "I'm going to give you each a sedative. If neither of you scream, I will leave Penelope Garcia here unharmed. If, however, you make a fuss, I am going to shoot her. Do you understand?"

Again I glanced at Garcia, who was crying silently, and whose hand still squeezed my shoulder. She couldn't meet my eye.

"It's okay, Pen," I promised, placing my hand over hers. "I need to see that Reid's okay. Please don't make a fuss, just stay here." To Curtell I said, "How do I know it's really a sedative you'll give her?"

Curtell's mouth twisted. "Scouts honour," he replied, and I realised it was the best chance she had. It was a better chance than a bullet.

"I understand," I agreed. "But you'll inject me first."

I held out my arm.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN./ Two updates within hours of each other. I shouldn't be allowed to write when I'm sick. Especially if this is what happens when I do… Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry! At least there's no such thing as suspense in this story since I feel compelled to update every 20 minutes, as I write it! –Bec xx**

**Chapter 12**

You always know, before you open your eyes, when you wake up in a hospital. This time, when I woke up, I knew I was not. I kept my eyes loosely closed, listened out. The nearest sound was that of breathing: deep, slow, but not even enough for that person to be sleeping. It was light. A woman? I could hear rain, smell wood. Someone shifted, further away than the woman. It was a heavy sound—boots scuffing a wooden floor. A man. A fire crackled and filled the room with thick warm air, a distinct scent. I lay on a couch. Its plush yet firm back pressed against my right arm and my head was tilted in the opposite direction, towards the woman and the fire. I slid my eyes ever so slightly open. Through my eyelashes I saw a low table directly in front of me and a fireplace further back. The woman was kneeling, silhouetted against them, rubbing her hands.

Emily.

My eyes opened wider as I tried to take the scene in and come to terms with my safety. I was in a cabin. Morgan stood by the only entrance, his arms folded.

"What's going on?" I blurted out, my voice dry and straining. "Where's Curtell? Garcia?"

Two heads snapped towards me.

"JJ," Emily breathed out. "You _fucking_ idiot."

Right, well, I hadn't expected _that_.

"You had no way of knowing what was in that syringe!" she cried, her voice strengthening as she pushed herself to her feet.

"I knew what was in the barrel of that gun!" I defended myself. "And he knew where Reid was!"

"Right, and just how did you plan on telling us that crucial piece of information once you let yourself be abducted?" Emily argued.

Not entirely stable on her feet, she walked slowly yet determinedly, seating herself on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. Her eyes were narrow and serious, but I thought I glimpsed something else flickering behind her anger.

"I was counting on Garcia being left as a witness, like _we_ were last night," I explained.

This time Morgan was the one to correct me. "Three nights ago," he said. "That was _three_ _nights_ ago, JJ."

I gulped. So I'd been out longer than I thought. "Where's Garcia?" I asked belately. "What happened?"

"She's at the BAU," Emily said, still looking guardedly unhappy with me. "Hotch went back to check on you and interrupted Curtell before he could sedate Garcia. Curtell switched targets and tried to get a shot in at Garcia's laptop, but he missed when Hotch grabbed him... Jen, you're damn lucky he didn't take that shot at either of you!"

"Why are you angry?" I asked, discomfited. "I did what I had to. I found out that Reid's still alive. I found out that Curtell's getting his orders from someone higher."

"There are a lot of people higher than Curtell where that much money is being made," Morgan pointed out, shaking his head. "How the hell did Reid get himself involved in this?"

"Have you been to his place?" I asked curiously.

"We didn't find much," admitted Morgan. "But then, if Reid knew he was being targeted, he wouldn't have left anything obvious lying around."

"He had to have encountered this case somewhere," I said. "And there has to be some reason he didn't tell us."

I tried to sit up, and Emily reached her good hand out to help me, her touch firm but gentle. When I was upright, that hand fell to my knee and squeezed uncertainly. Her eyes still held that strange concoction of anger, fear, and something else I couldn't name.

"Jenny, I'm serious," she insisted. "If you ever make such a stupid move again—"

_Jenny,_ I thought. That was a new one from her. Only dad called me that.

"I know, I know… I got lucky," I agreed, although I didn't feel that way. I felt like I should be with Spence, even if it wasn't safe or helpful to anybody.

Emily looked like she wanted to say something else then, but instead she pulled her hand back into her lap and shook her head.

"Where are we?" I asked, looking over at Morgan.

"Safe house," he replied. "Whoever these guys are, they made it clear that they're after you, and since Emily was with you when Reid was abducted, we're not taking any chances. Curtell's in custody but he's not talking, and there are plenty of other guys fit to do his job out there somewhere."

"Morgan wanted Garcia out here with us due to her involvement," Emily added, "Curtell knew she got into that computer and he wanted to destroy whatever she found. But Pen argued that she couldn't get all her systems going out here and she needed to keep working to find Reid." She smirked at Morgan in a moment of near-lightness. "He still wasn't happy about leaving her behind."

"Before you tease, oh emotionless one," Morgan warned, "I'd just like to remind you how _you_ reacted when you found out what happened to JJ."

I glanced at Emily in surprise but she merely shrugged her shoulder—the one that hadn't been recently shot at—casually. "At least JJ and I are in a relationship," she retorted, an obvious hint to Morgan.

Morgan offered her a small half-smile. "About that," he segued, "Exactly _when_ were you planning on telling us?"

"I'm sorry," she replied sarcastically, "We didn't think we'd _need_ to tell such a talented team of profilers."

"Might need to up your game, Morgan," I joined in, "Since your would-be-girlfriend, the _technical analyst_, figured it out within a couple of days."

"Okay, fair call," Morgan admitted. He didn't rise to the girlfriend bait and it became clear why when he spoke again. "So, then, when were you planning on telling us about the other secret you've been keeping?"

I watched as Emily's face, which had been fairly open, first in her anger and then in her amusement, closed up entirely. It was as if she had erected a wall behind her eyes. Although she still sat on the table directly in front of me, she was no longer engaged the way she had been. In a matter of seconds I witnessed her disappear from us, taking refuge inside her own head. Was this what she called compartmentalizing? It didn't seem healthy.

"Well?" Morgan pressed.

Although he didn't raise his voice, I was wary. I'd been there when he found out about Emily's self injury, unlike her. I knew he'd been angry.

"It's none of your business," Emily replied flatly and without looking at him.

"Oh, it's none of my business," Morgan repeated incredulously. "Emily, this job is stressful—it takes its toll, I know that—but I've also got to know I can trust you to be rational! For God's sake, how are we supposed to function as a team when you're slashing your wrists and JJ's practically offering herself up to unsubs with no strings attached!"

"Morgan," I barked, surprising myself. "I know you're upset, but you need to _cool down_." I held his gaze firmly. "You're not helping."

Morgan began to pace. "And, what, do you think _you're_ helping, JJ?" he snapped. "Keeping this to yourself? We're supposed to be a _team_! You can't not tell us something like this—that should be obvious!"

"We can't start profiling each other," I insisted. "Morgan, we're friends and we work together, but we are _not_ each others keepers. And, more importantly, this isn't something we need to be arguing about while Reid is missing!"

Morgan leaned against the wall stiffly, suddenly unable to look at either one of us. "You're right," he grunted. "I need some air. I'll be right outside the door." Whether he intended it to or not, the door slammed shut behind him.

As soon as it was closed, Emily stood and headed for the bathroom. I twisted around to watch her. "Em, are you okay?"

"I need to be alone," she said, her voice devoid of any perceptible emotion. "This cabin is too fucking small."

I could feel my face creasing with anxiety, but I forced myself to let her go, lying back on the couch. She was right. We were going to go crazy here. I tried to call Garcia but her line was busy. Morgan had probably had the same idea.

I didn't even know where we were. Closing my eyes, I allowed the tears I'd been keeping in to well and fall. My head, which had been a little less painful when I woke up, was beginning to pound again. Whatever Curtell had given me was well and truly wearing off. I wondered if they were still keeping Reid doped up. If they were, I almost envied him. Morgan had to have brought ample medical supplies, to be taking care of both Emily and I, but I decided not to check if he had anything for the pain. Honestly, I knew that he would, but I didn't want it. Knowing what Reid must be going through, knowing he'd been taken after coming to me for help, I felt like I deserved it.

I don't know how much time passed before I dragged myself to my feet to check on Emily. It would have been sooner but it was so hard to convince my aching body to move again. Fighting with Morgan had exhausted me. Still, I hobbled over to the bathroom door and knocked quietly. I didn't want Morgan to hear and think there was a problem.

"Emily?" I called softly. "Can I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Emily?"

I tried the handle but it wouldn't budge.

"Emily," I repeated, more desperately now. "Please, please, don't make me go and get Morgan to break this door in. Please? He already thinks I'm a terrible person for not getting you help. Fuck, maybe I am a terrible person. I am. _Okay_, I am, I'm sorry. Please just let me in."

I resisted the urge to lean against the door. Standing had worsened my headache.

"Em, please listen to me," I begged her. "I love you. I love you so much more than I have ever loved anyone. Even though we work together; even though you're a woman; even though you deserve so much better than me, and even though Morgan's right and I've done nothing to help you—" My voice hitched here. "I'll admit it, I've failed you. You have every right to hate me. I just need to know you're okay."

I stopped suddenly as I heard the lock click open. I didn't push. I waited for her to open the door herself, which she did, slowly.

"F-for God's sake, Jen," she whispered. "Listen to all that crap, you're sprouting. I'm the one who's supposed to be depressed…"

She had a wad of tissue in her right hand, below the cast, which she clamped over a deep gash in her left arm. When I stepped into the room and closed the door, she returned to the sink and ran both the arm and her fingers, now dipped in blood, under the tap. I swallowed painfully and forced myself not to comment as the water swirled to red before slipping down the drain. Blood red, white porcelain—Rosaline. I closed my eyes and I could see her there. But I had to move past her, to help Emily now.

"You have bandages," I assumed. My voice was low as tested the waters of this new situation. What should I do? What would she let me do?

"In my make-up bag," Emily replied, not looking at me. She inclined her head towards a small black bag sitting in an open cupboard and it hit me that she had been prepared for this. She'd seen Morgan's exit as a chance to come in here and hurt herself and she'd taken it. She'd also bet on my reluctance to intervene—my desire to trust her, to not treat her like a child, to not restrict her autonomy. Manipulated, that was how I felt. We aren't supposed to profile each other.

Despite the hindrance of her cast, I didn't help Emily clean the wound. I only watched. She seemed to have a time-learned technique and was focused and clear-headed while executing it. When she was finished she washed the sink out, rolled her sleeve down over the bandage, and flushed the evidence in the toilet. She closed the open cupboard door. Everything was as it should be.

Without meeting my eyes, Emily slid past me out of the bathroom. Morgan was still outside and I was gobsmacked. She'd done it right here beneath our noses and she was getting away with it. I wondered how many times she'd done the same thing on a case, while I was sitting obliviously in the next room. The thought made me feel ill. I tried to push it aside.

"I've never heard you refer to yourself as depressed before," I tried carefully.

"Sorry," Emily sighed, sitting in front of the fire again with her back to me, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her tone was a verbal eye roll. "What would _you_ call it?"

This cabin was becoming a veritable swamp of sarcasm. It was in the air, thick and choking.

"Emily, I'm trying to be calm and rational here," I argued. "I don't deserve this."

_Did I?_ There was no response.

"Damn it, Emily. Just talk to me!"

"There's no point, Jennifer!" Emily cried. "There is _no point. _You can't think about this rationally because it isn't rational. I need it, it happens. There's no _why_ and there's no _if._ It just is. This is the way I am."

"Is that what you'd say to Lea Hawkins if she were still alive?" I pleaded with her. "Is that what you'd say to Tabitha Burnam?"

"Jen, I told you, you can't rationalize this," Emily insisted. "Maybe Tabitha can get better, have a good life. I don't know. I hope so, but I don't know. All I do know is that I've been doing this for so long, it doesn't matter how many times I get to two weeks or three weeks, or even a few months—when things get bad enough I'm always going to do it again."

"You don't know that," I told her and my voice sounded detached and toneless, even to my own ears.

I didn't want to hear this, I realised. I didn't want to hear that it didn't get better; that all roads led to Ros lying in a pink-stained bathtub with her wrists cut open and her eyes wide and staring. I wanted to believe I could save one through the other. I couldn't.

"JJ," Emily implored. "Remember the first time Reid was taken, the first time he was dosed with Dilaudid, when all this started?"

"You know I do," I murmured blackly.

"You'd been attacked by dogs," Emily reminded me anyway. "Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and I know you've been dreaming of them, _still_, years later. You had to shoot them to save yourself."

She turned to look up at me, standing behind her. Her eyes were full of fatality.

"You have nightmares where they get you and they tear you apart," she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper now: secret, vulnerable, real. "That's what I do, Jen. I tear myself apart. When you were in the bathroom in Hankel's house and I came up behind you, you saw me in the mirror and you _turned your gun on me_. I know you saw it, just for a second. You saw me for what I am in that mirror: one of those starved, abused dogs. I'm something that only knows how to destroy; you can't help me."

She didn't stretch the metaphor to imply that she should be put down herself but I knew that was how she felt. Before, when I worried about Emily killing herself, a large part of my fear was a projection of guilt—the recurring terror of being unable to help Rosaline, of never knowing she needed me until it was too late. I was desperate not to make the same mistake twice. Now I feared for Emily's life in a way that was entirely to do with her; to do with the feelings she was expressing to me in depth for the first time. There was no justification that it was just stress or that it was about a case; no implication that it would pass. There was no "I'm fine," no sugarcoating at all. And I realised that this couldn't be the first time she had felt this way, only the first time I was hearing about it. It had to be exhausting to feel so much pain and keep it in. No wonder she felt the need to open windows in herself to let it out.

I sank to my knees on the floor behind her and lay my forehead against her back. What could I possibly say to that?

I slipped my arms around her waist and held on.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN./ I promised one of you a chapter this evening. It's 12:05am—does that count? –Bec xx**

**Chapter 13**

I had almost fallen asleep when Morgan returned. Opening my eyes before the door had fully closed, I saw woodlands. That much made sense. Log cabins tend to be out of place in the middle of the city. Still, the isolation of our safe house made me uncomfortable. It was getting dark.

Although she was upset and seemed to be angry in general, I found that Emily wasn't angry with me. When we'd sat long enough in front of the fire that my limbs started to cramp, she let me move us back onto the couch. I lay with my back to her chest, her arms around my waist, and I covered her hands with mine. She calmed down then, and the rise and fall of her breathing as it eased told me that she had fallen asleep, leaving me to contemplate her confessions in silence.

All of us were in a state of prolonged stress with Spence gone, but I didn't want to chalk her words up to that alone. Still, the feeling of Emily wrapped around me made it easier to deal with the fear of losing her. Feeling her breath against my neck reassured me that she was, for the time being, alive. There was still time to save her and, I had to believe, Reid too.

"Is she awake?" Morgan asked, barely glancing at the pair of us before heading to the fire. It must have been getting cold outside.

I rubbed Emily's unbroken arm gently, avoiding the place where I knew her latest wound lay hidden. When she didn't stir, I shook my head. "She's exhausted," I pointed out. "And it's getting late."

Morgan shrugged his shoulders up to his ears to warm them. He hadn't needed to stay out so long, but I had to admit I'd been glad of the space.

"You two can use the bedroom," he told me—something I hadn't even thought of. "I'll help you move her."

Morgan helping me was, in fact, more a case of him carrying Emily into the next room and me trailing uselessly behind him. I still wasn't fit for a whole lot, but at least the pain in my head was beginning to fade. A double bed sat in the middle of the room and I drew the blankets down so that Morgan could place Emily in it, before pulling them back up around her. As I tucked her in, too slowly, I toyed with the idea of getting into bed with her and leaving Morgan to brood in the main room alone. But I knew that wasn't fair. He watched as I placed a soft kiss on Emily's hairline and then held the door open for me. There'd be no escaping talking with him.

As we sat on the couch, Morgan took his time. I could tell that he was choosing his words carefully and I felt bad about arguing with him before. Morgan wasn't injured, yet he was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere babysitting Emily and I while a member of our team was missing. It couldn't be easy. "I'm sorry about before," he apologised eventually. His voice was low and well meaning. It gave the impression of confidentiality. "I was out of line."

After what Emily had done while he was gone, I wasn't sure that was true anymore, but I nodded anyway. I knew I had to be more honest with him, but I wasn't sure how. Did honesty mean telling him everything that Emily told me in confidence? It didn't feel right. I needed to keep her trust—for both of our sakes. I couldn't lose her.

Uncertainly, I passed a glance over my shoulder towards Emily's door. "Derek, I know it doesn't seem like it but I do worry about her," I admitted. "I want to help her, but she's an adult. I can't change the way she feels or how she decides to control it; I can only offer comfort and advice."

"JJ, of course I know you care about her," Morgan replied. "Honestly, I think it's great—you two, together." A smile played briefly on his lips, then fell away. "But it's serious, what she does. She's an extremely professional, extremely capable and intelligent woman, which I know you know. For her to be hurting herself is a bad sign." He sighed. "If it gets up the ladder at the Bureau, not even Hotch can protect her. They can decide she's not emotionally fit to work in the field. Jayj, they can take away her gun, give her a desk job."

I cringed at that. Emily would be able to think of nothing worse. "How's Hotch taking it?" I asked.

Morgan shook his head. "You guys are putting him in a tight spot, JJ; there's no getting past that… It's two big secrets that you've kept right under his nose. If anyone else finds out he's going to look totally incompetent."

"But Hotch knew about Emily," I reminded him. "He's known since Pennsylvania."

"But you've known longer, haven't you?" Morgan guessed, considering me.

"Not much longer," I protested, although he was correct. "And I wanted to tell Hotch but, like you said, it's a bad position for him to have be in. It wouldn't have helped."

I watched as Morgan ran a hand over his head, combing through a thick of invisible hair—a nervous habit. "Look, Jayj, Hotch is going to try to protect you both," he said honestly. "If he can, he'll keep everything within this team and try to sort it out himself. But you've got to realise he's putting his neck on the line for you—you _and_ Emily."

My heart sank and I nodded, understanding. But Morgan wasn't done.

"That's why you've got to tell me, JJ," he went on. "Long term, we can get her help. There are things we can do to make it easier on her, like we did when Reid was having problems. Hell, we've all had problems at some point or other. That's not the issue. I need to know, right here and right now, while you two are under my protection: _Do_ I need to be worried about Emily hurting herself?"

His voice was clear, firm; I knew he was right. Without trusting myself to speak, I nodded my head twice. A lump had risen in my throat where it now lingered painfully. Morgan reached across the couch to grasp my hand.

"That's okay," he told me "I can help you look out for that, as long as I know. Last question, JJ. I need to know if you consider Emily a suicide risk."

My eyes widened. I couldn't swallow. I tried to ask myself honestly whether or not I believed that was a possibility, even a remote one. What would it mean for Emily if I did? I glanced at the bedroom door again, but Morgan squeezed my hand tighter and redirected my gaze toward him.

"JJ?" he asked.

I winced as I swallowed past the lump in my throat and wet my lips to talk. "In terms of the signs we look for," I began, because that seemed the safest path, "She hasn't said any elaborate goodbyes, hasn't made any unexpected declarations of love, hasn't been giving away treasured possessions…" I touched Rosaline's necklace at my throat and shut my eyes for a moment before continuing. "She hasn't been drinking more often or more heavily than usual, or been engaging in risky behaviours. Until Reid was taken, she hadn't been talking a lot about death, she was sleeping as well as any of us do—better than me actually—and she hadn't hurt herself in a couple of weeks. She'd been taking care of herself."

I couldn't meet Morgan's eye, but I know he picked up on my use of the past tense, as well as the implication that Emily had hurt herself since Reid's abduction. He needed to know, I reasoned with myself, but that didn't make it feel like any less of a betrayal.

"I'm sensing there's a but," Morgan pressed, squeezing my hand again.

I glanced up at him, then down again. "Okay, _but_," I continued, nodding, "I am worried about her, now that this has happened."

"Can you verbalise why?" he asked.

I chewed my lip and considered my options, hesitant to go any further. "Because of the way she's been talking like there's no hope of getting better," I tried, finally. "Because she admits that she's depressed, and because I got the impression she tried to kill herself at least once when she was younger. I don't know anything about it except that she was around 15 and a boy she knew saved her life. It was a long time ago but past attempts are always a risk factor..."

This evaluation was apparently enough to satisfy Morgan that I was being rational about Emily, because he got to his feet, nodded, and walked over to the kitchen area, surveying the contents of the cupboards. "Are you hungry?" he asked, pulling out a few cans.

I was indifferent, really, but I knew that I should eat, so I let him prepare a makeshift meal of tinned beans and other such delicacies. At least they were hot.

"So," I segued as we ate, cross-legged, by the fire. "Did you find out anything from Garcia?"

Morgan didn't seem surprised by my assumption that he'd called her. "There was a recent incident involving a member of Reid's narcotics anonymous group," he remembered. "It looked like it could be related, so Hotch and Rossi went to check it out." He checked his watch and reached for his phone.

"Office of unmitigated superiority," I heard Garcia intone dully. It was an old line. Her creative spark was clearly being worn down by this case.

"Baby girl, you're on speaker," Morgan warned, but I didn't think she seemed up for their usual banter anyway.

"Em?" Garcia guessed. "How's your sleeping beauty?"

I smiled, despite myself. "Actually, I'm up now, Pen. Emily's the one sleeping."

Garcia's response was higher in pitch than was ideal for my slowly improving headache, but it was still good to hear her voice. "Jayj! Thank God you're okay!" she exclaimed. "And good for Em—she must be exhausted!"

"That she is," I agreed, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. I remembered Emily's words to me a few weeks ago—that the difference between being exhausted and being suicidal was a finer line than people thought. "Any leads on the case?"

"How does it feel to be the ones of out the loop, my loves?" Garcia asked, and I could hear simultaneous computing going on in the background. "Looks like we've got a lead!"

"You better explain, Mama," Morgan put in, almost playfully. A lead was just what we needed to get out of the stifling fog of depression and aggravation that had settled on this cabin.

"Ok," Garcia began. "It is, by the way, _so weird_ explaining this stuff on the phone and not being able to show you pictures, but I'll do my best." She cleared her voice. "So we've been busy looking into Reid's movements in the weeks leading up to all that craziness-at-JJ's-that-I-don't-even-wanna-think-about and Rossi and Hotch have been retracing his steps, along with some supplementary agents, since tragedy has gone and befallen our perfect team!"

"Anything unusual in Reid's movements?" Morgan asked, directing her verbal flow lest she descend into rambling.

"Not that we could find at first," Garcia admitted, "But since Reid was drugged sometime before he got to JJ's, we decided to take a close look at his support group, to see if we could find any sick someones who might've used his weakness against him. 'Course, it's anonymous so there's not exactly a class list; Hotch and Rossi had to just turn up at a meeting and hope nobody was home sick—or, you know, worse."

"And they found something?" I assumed.

"Some_one_," Garcia corrected me. "And actually, she found them. You know, Hotch in his suit and sunglasses just _screams_ I'm-an-FBI-agent, so as soon as he enters, this woman comes up to him and starts asking _does he work with Reid_ and _is he okay_."

"Friendly concern?" Morgan suggested a little skeptically.

"Believe what you will, my love," replied Garcia. "But I got the impression that her concern was less about Reid personally than it was to do with the fact that she says he was looking into her sister's disappearance."

"Don't tell me," I said. "An ambulance came to pick her up but never arrived at any hospital."

"_Excuse me_, pumpkin," Garcia sighed in mock annoyance, "Unless you're ready to get your ass back down here and do some investigating, you'll let _me_ reveal the major plot points, thank you very much!"

"We'll be back in a couple of days," Morgan promised, which was news to me. "Just waiting for our girls to get solidly back on their feet first. What was the sister's story, mama?"

"The sister, as in, the sister that Hotch and Rossi met, is Gillian Gardner. She's 26; her sister Winnie is 24," Garcia recited. "Winnie was a regular at Reid's narcotics anonymous meetings—she was fighting a heroin addiction. She'd been out of rehab six months and was doing well, at least until a few weeks ago, when she started acting all anxious and out of sorts. Gillian thought she might have been relapsing, so she started visiting more often, keeping an eye on her, even attending the narcotics anonymous sessions with her sister. About a week before Reid's abduction, Gillian had gone to visit her sister at her apartment and found her in the stairwell, babbling and looking panicked. She heard sirens and assumed that her sister or a neighbour had called them, but when the paramedics arrived they wouldn't tell her which hospital they were taking Winnie to. When she tried to follow them, she landed herself a fair beating and passed out."

"These guys, they don't wear masks but they don't mind leaving witnesses," Morgan pointed out. "Did she get a good enough look to facilitate any composite sketches?"

"Sure did," Garcia replied, "Neither of them look familiar, except to the degree that they could be any guy on the street. But maybe when you guys get back Emily will be able to tell us if they were the same guys who took Reid."

"The MO is the same," Morgan agreed, "But what's the point?"

Garcia continued to tap away on her keyboard and took a moment before answering. "When she came to, Gillian called the police but given her head injury and her story about the phony paramedics, it seems they didn't take her very seriously, and they wouldn't allow her to file a missing persons report because her sister had only been gone a few hours and, anyway, she was probably out looking for drugs if she was so unstable lately."

"And then, frustrated with the police, Gillian remembered hearing Reid speak at her sister's meetings," Morgan inferred. "She knew he was an FBI agent, so she sought him out and begged for his help."

"Which, of course, our sweet boy couldn't refuse," Garcia added.

I shook my head doubtfully. "But that doesn't explain why he didn't bring the case directly to us. We could've been helping him from the beginning."

"He didn't have any evidence at that point," Morgan pointed out. "Maybe he wanted to be sure what he was looking at first? Or, like the police, he wasn't sure any crime had been committed?"

"But he must have had something," I insisted. "He and Garcia broke into a house to illegally access a personal computer!" It was just too implausible. "He knew Winnie's abduction was important enough to risk everything, and he still didn't tell us about it. He didn't even explain to Garcia why she was checking this computer out. There has to be a reason for that."

"Maybe the fact that investigating it got him abducted," Garcia suggested. "He was trying to limit our involvement in order to protect us."

"But that's another thing," Morgan sighed. "Why abduct Winnie and Reid at all? We have to assume that no bodies means they're still alive. So they're being held somewhere—for a purpose, surely."

"It may not just be Winnie and Reid," Garcia let on now. "One of the agents searching Reid's place came across a name written in a book he had shelved. The page was bookmarked; name was Michelle Toovey. I tracked her, with some difficulty, to a shelter for victims of domestic violence and abuse. When Hotch brought it up with Gillian, she said Winnie _worked_ at that shelter, and you wanna know what else?"

"I know you're gonna tell me, baby girl."

"Oh, damn straight," Garcia agreed. "Because this is where it gets interesting. Hotch sent _me_ to talk to her, hoping she'd open up to me more than them, being a woman. She was nervous as hell and wouldn't say much but, get this—at one point, she absolutely flipped out. Went into total hysterics."

"What's the significance of that?" Morgan asked, confused. "Was there a specific trigger?"

At this point, the tension between fear and self-satisfaction in Garcia's tone was almost tangible through the phone connection. "You bet there was, sweetcheeks. She freaked out because we heard a siren passing by."


	14. Chapter 14

**AN./ My apologies! I would've finished this chapter sooner but I've been busy making super exciting plans for a friend to visit next month! Remember to leave a review if you're enjoying this story. You have no idea how much I appreciate those of you who do! And I do see the traffic stats, by the way, so I'm assuming the other several thousand readers are just shy. In which case, you should say hi anyway because I'm very friendly! ;) –Bec xx**

**Chapter 14**

Leaving Morgan to sleep on the couch, I discovered that my go-bag (like myself) had been whisked away from Quantico to the room I now shared with Emily. The cupboards were additionally stocked with blankets, nondescript sweats, and the sort of underwear you buy in ten-packs. My weapon, I found nestled between my own clothes and, checking the drawer in Emily's sidetable, I found hers as well. I followed her lead, placing my gun within reach, and sourced a pair of flannel pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt from my go-bag.

Emily rolled over and locked eyes with me as I began to undress, giving me a sleepy yet sultry appraisal.

"Bit racy for a place like this," she commented on my underwear, sounding amused.

I hid a smile. "Well," I replied, "Given that I _know_ this isn't what I was wearing at the hospital, I'm going to assume that you're the one responsible for the inappropriateness of my undergarments today."

"Guilty," Emily chuckled unabashedly. "Hotch had me grab you some extra clothes—and… get you ready to leave." She punctuated the last part with a sly wink.

Raising an eyebrow, I removed my bra, refusing to turn away in modesty if she'd already seen me, and pulled the new t-shirt over my head. "So you've been back to my apartment then?" I gathered.

Emily's expression clouded slightly. "It's a mess," she warned. "I hope you weren't attached to anything in there."

_Well fuck_, it was my home. I was attached to almost everything about it.

"It's fine," I replied, sounding more dismissive than I felt. As I climbed into bed and leaned my back against the headboard, Emily sat up too. I sighed gratefully as she slipped her good hand into mine and leaned into my side. "Really, Em, it doesn't matter," I promised, feeling her silent concern enveloping me. "You were the most valuable thing in there for me, and you're okay. That's enough."

Without labouring the point, I turned my head to kiss down her neck, and immediately felt her hand lift to weave through my hair, pulling me closer.

"You scared the hell out of me," Emily murmured, and I hummed softly, trailing my lips down her collarbone, into the hollow at the base of her neck. "You weren't waking up. Hotch was furious; I thought Morgan was going to beat Curtell to death. Pen was in hysterics, of course, which didn't help..."

"Em, let's not talk about it," I whispered into her skin, but her hand slipped from my hair to my jaw and tilted my face up seriously.

"I know you were doing it for Reid," she told me, "But, Jen, you and I have _both_ got to start taking better care of ourselves than this."

Emily had also changed into a t-shirt to sleep, and her most recently applied bandage was clearly visible, along with a litany of bruises now tinged yellow-green around the edges. I eyed her arm soberly until Emily's thumb, stroking my cheek, redirected my gaze to her face.

"Jayj—"

I kissed her before she could apologise. Slow and soft and smooth, only pulling away for as long as it took me to repeat myself: "Let's not talk, Em..."

"Can't you just listen, Jennifer?" Emily pleaded, pulling back again. Her hands framed my face, holding me just far enough away to separate our lips. I saw the dark gravity building in her eyes and didn't argue. Of course I could listen, if that's what she needed. "I know what I did today was fucked up. Cutting myself while you were in the other room and Morgan was outside steaming about me doing it at all? Please don't patronize me or pretend I'm not a mess."

My eyebrow quirked upward of its own accord. "Emily, I would never dream of suggesting you're not _completely_ fucked in the head," I replied unflinchingly. I think I almost got a smile for that too.

"I am though," she murmured. I could tell from her voice that she believed it.

"Come here," I offered, shifting so that we could lie down properly. Gently, I enveloped Emily in my arms and pulled the blanket up to our shoulders, cocooning us together, warm and safe. Laying my forehead against hers, I stared into her eyes, hoping to convey my earnestness. "Y_ou_ listen to me, Miss Prentiss," I dictated. "There is nothing wrong with who you are, as you are. Okay? There are things that you do and feel that are damaging, but they aren't wrong or fucked up. There are just better solutions."

I shushed her attempt to interrupt me here. I was on a roll. "Of course I know you're not okay. I'm not deluded or making excuses for you. I know we're going to need to work damn hard to get you through this, because right now I'm scared. I am fucking scared that I'm going to lose you, and I'm not the only one either. But you need to know that I'm not going to let you go; that you will never be so fucked up that you're not worth the effort for me—no matter how you feel. I'm not going anywhere, so please talk to me."

It was hard to read Emily's reaction in her face, but after a few moments she nodded. "I got complacent," she admitted. "I allowed myself to become so happy with you, and to trust so much in that happiness, that when Reid disappeared… I just don't know what to do, Jen. I can't stand the fact that I was so happy one day and now, just like that, I'm as bad as I've been in years. It makes me feel like there's no point trying…"

Reaching up, I smoothed my thumb against the furrows in Emily's brow before cupping her cheek in my hand. "Our friend is missing," I replied, knowing how she felt about sugarcoating things. "Spence—he's practically a brother to me, Em, and I think to you as well. It's hard to go from seeing him every day to having him gone, knowing he's in danger and not being able to help him. It's okay for you to be affected by that." I paused uncertainly before repeating the words I had said to Tabitha in her teacher's kitchen a few weeks ago. "You know… sometimes people can grow up believing that they need to hide their pain, always put on a brave face…"

At that moment, for the first time since Reid's abduction, I watched tears fill Emily's eyes. When they began to fall she neither brushed them away nor lowered her gaze—a small victory, I thought. "This isn't exactly a brave face I'm wearing now," she pointed out, and even her voice was more vulnerable than I had heard it in a long time. Petal-soft, wavering.

I brushed my cheek against hers, taking on the burden of her tears. "I know," I promised. "Emily, I know." And it meant so much to me that she was opening up; that she was daring to feel her emotions, not chasing them away with physical pain or punishing herself for her own humanity. I had to kiss her, to run my hands through her long dark hair, to taste her and feel her against me. Somehow I had to make her feel how much I loved her…

"You beautiful, beautiful girl," I whispered, and now I felt her smile against my lips.

"Beautiful," she repeated disbelievingly. "With all my scars?"

"With all your scars," I assured her without skipping a beat. "Inside and out; past, present, and future."

* * *

Our breakfast consisted of toast—we had found a loaf of reasonable looking bread in the freezer—paired with honey and long-life orange juice. Did you know that honey never goes off? According to Reid, archaologists recently discovered a jar of honey from pharaonic Egypt that was still perfectly edible. Thousands of years old and it still tasted delicious on toast. That was the kind of reliability I felt Emily would appreciate. It made me wish Spence were here to explain it to her properly.

We ate in front of the fire, which Morgan had kept going—thank God, because it was colder this morning. Emily and I had spent the night cuddling and additionally well-insultated by our thick blankets. I still wore the t-shirt and flannel pants I had slept in, while Emily had covered up with a cardigan. I noticed that it was she same one of mine that she'd picked up when Reid arrived that night, and it made me feel warm inside that she had adopted it so casually. A similar thrill had run through me when she first sat down beside me, leaning into my side and pecking me on the lips right in front of Morgan. We still hadn't slept together, but she was making it clear that she was invested in our relationship. Her actions exposed it as something established, a given, which excited me.

Garcia called just as Morgan shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth. He was still chewing as he answered. "What'cha… got, baby girl?"

"Besides charm, wit, and a great ass?" Garcia replied, "I've got one hell of a lead."

The return of Penelope's perky flirtatiousness was even more promising to me than her words.

"Pray tell, sweetness?"

Garcia chuckled lowly, "Oh, anything for you, my love," she hummed. Then she straightened herself out, gained focus. "So, the women's shelter that Winnie Gardner worked for is absolutely the link we needed. Turns out at least five other women who were either living at, or regularly visited the services at, that shelter have since gone missing. It hasn't been picked up on by the authorities or even the staff—except, apparently, Winnie herself—because the nature of those places is that they're temporary dwellings. Women come and go all the time. Some of them move on, make new starts, but most of them go back to their partners. These are grown women, y'know, so there's not much the staff can do about it if they decide to leave, and sometimes it can even be dangerous to contact them if they go back home."

"So, you think there've been five more, plus Winnie and Reid—that's seven abductions?" Morgan counted. "You said the transactions on this computer you hacked totaled in the billions. How do you make billions of dollars by kidnapping seven ordinary people and not asking for any sort of ransom?"

"Sugar, I wish it were only seven," Garcia replied. "On a whim, I checked in with other shelters in the area, and when I did that I checked again across state lines, and it looks like… Well, I can't give you an exact figure, but a _hell_ of a lot more than seven people have gone unaccountably missing from various shelters in the past decade or so. I'm not just talking women's shelters, either—think rehab centres, homeless shelters, mental institutions, you name it..."

"So by preying on people who have a high risk of disappearing on their own, these unsubs are making sure they can't get caught. No one ever realises a crime has taken place," Emily provided.

"Afraid so, princess." Garcia's tone was beyond unhappy. She was disgusted. She ran a support group herself, after all. The idea that someone could be picking off vulnerable people trying to improve themselves must have nauseated her. "They check in to a shelter, stay awhile; a lot of them seemed to be making progress, and then they disappear. It happens all the time—people do their best but they can't take it, they succumb again to addiction or to the security of a relationship, even a damaging one. People stop taking their meds, stop seeing their psychs. A lot of them end up dead. Others just fall off the grid. Maybe they turn up a few months or a few years later and try again, but usually they don't."

"It's got to be someone's job to stop people from slipping through the cracks," I found myself saying. It was a recurring theme—I hadn't been able to get the thought out of my head the whole time we were in Pennsylvania. "We're talking about human beings—someone gave birth to them, someone taught them in school, someone gave them their first job and sold them their first car, they were somebody's first real love. It's one thing to know and not to care, but how can these people disappear and have no one even _realise_ it."

It wasn't that I was disputing what had occurred; I just didn't know how to process the fact that it had.

"I'm with you, sweetie," Garcia agreed sympathetically. "It doesn't make sense."

"Baby girl, how are we distinguishing these everyday disappearances from the work of our unsubs?" Morgan asked. "They can't be responsible for everything."

"If only," Garcia replied. "Then we could nail their asses and it from happening. No. I'm still sorting through all these cases. In some there's little or no available data. It's meaning a lot of phonecalls for me and not a lot of information coming out of them. When I can, I speak to someone who worked with the missing person at the shelter, but the further I go back, the harder that gets. And there's always the possibility that some of these women are Jane Does lying in a morgue somewhere…"

"So?" Morgan pressed. "Where's the case? What did Reid see that we haven't?"

This, Garcia seemed to have a fledging answer for. "Well, there's this," she began. "I'm still going through the cases individually, like I said, but I've confirmed that in at least thirty, so far, the victim was last seen being taken away by an ambulance—same as Winnie and Reid. Usually it was after some kind of drug-related episode, and sometimes the person involved didn't even have a history of drug-use to begin with. Seems like they get dosed somehow, the 'ambulance' picks them up, which of course no one questions, and they don't come back. Workers at the shelter figure they've either died or their hospitalization has changed their situation, maybe brought their problems to the attention of a family member or a spouse—who knows? They don't come back, and work goes on. There are always more people who need help. Some rehab facilities don't even let you back in if you're caught using during their program. It'd be the perfect way to disappear someone without arousing suspicion: they get kicked out, they disappear. Who'd ever expect foul play? It happens all the time."

"Sounds perfect," Emily mused, "If all you're worried about is the logistics of the abduction. We still need to figure out what's being done to them if they're not turning up dead or being ransomed. They can't all have be being held. You said this has been going on for a decade."

"At least," Garcia confirmed. "It's more than big."

"We could be looking at a human trafficking operation," I suggested, and Morgan's reaction was one of both dread and exhaustion. I gathered he'd had a sleepness night on the couch.

"Whatever this is, Reid doesn't fit the profile," he pointed out. "These guys abduct women. Little boys might bring in money, but grown men? There's probably a market but it's a niche, and these guys know both he and Winnie are onto them. That's not a good sign."

"_Hotch_… hey!" Garcia yelped, and I got the impression that he'd appeared behind her suddenly, in that awful, silent way of his. "_Jesus!_ …I mean— Sorry, sir."

Hotch's muffled voice filtered across the line, but the connection was too bad for me to decipher his words. Garcia remedied this by placing her phone on speaker as well.

"Emily, JJ, how are you two?" Hotch's voice was flat and unrevealing, but I knew from experience that that didn't mean he wasn't concerned.

"Much better," I supplied, glancing at Emily, who nodded.

"You're going to need to be," he answered. "I'm afraid I can't give you any more time."

Emily nodded firmly. "We're ready," she told him. There was no doubt in her voice.

"Emily, I can't have you in the field with your injuries, but it's time for you both to come home. I'll make arrangements for you to stay nearby on the base, as it's still dangerous for you to return to your homes." Hotch paused here. I think he was wondering whether to tell me what Emily already had—that my home had been ransacked. He decided against it. "I don't think I need to tell you that since you're staying at the Bureau, it'll be two rooms."

"Obviously," I replied quickly, without looking at Emily.

"There will be eyes on you two," he warned. "I'm doing my best to stem suspicions, so don't make any stupid mistakes. A car's on its way to collect you as we speak. Morgan, we discussed the code the driver will use to confirm his identity."

"Yeah, I remember, Hotch."

"Good." A pause. "I'll see you in six hours. This son of a bitch has had Reid too long."


	15. Chapter 15

**AN./ As always, reviews are an excellent form of motivation ;) –Bec xx**

**Chapter 15**

"You can think of large scale organised crime as a business," Emily suggested. She was the expert among us in that field. Although I didn't know everything there was to know about it, I knew she'd spent years in deep cover with Ian Doyle. Deep enough that when it came to a head and he nearly killed her, she begged Morgan to let her die. Still, she spoke with complete clarity.

"What it entails is the continuous operation and interrelation of different criminal specialities within a single framework or hierarchy, usually under a single leader. That leader is going to be extremely intelligent, extremely violent, narcisstic and paranoid. He'll have complete power over the life and death of his subordinates, yet most of them wouldn't recognise him in the street. He trusts no one, and always has a way out of any situation he finds himself in." Emily took a breath here and glanced around the room like a teacher gauging the interest of her students. We were all focused entirely on her.

"As for the lower levels of the hierarchy," she continued. "We're talking about money and power. That's what matters to these guys. For some, it's also about the game: staying ahead of not only law enforcement, but also criminal competitors and rival organisations. They might taunt police because they are certain they can't be connected to any crime. Others are intentional danger-seekers. They live on adrenalin, continually pushing their luck and their abilities. However, the more senior the position, the less likely this becomes. Risk management is key to advancement—recklessness gets you killed as quickly by your own people as by your enemies. The ones with the real power are older—in their 40s, at least. They're meticulous planners and they've earned the trust of the people around them by being consistent and ruthless."

"So how do we catch them?" Morgan asked practically.

Emily shook her head slightly. "We don't," she replied. "It takes years of undercover work to infiltrate such organisations deeply enough to arrest any significant personnel. These abductions have been going on for a very long time; there have got to be hundreds of people involved, and they're all extremely dangerous."

"What are you saying? There's nothing we can do?" It was clear from Morgan's tone that he didn't believe that. Emily wasn't the type to give up on a friend.

"Of course not," she replied. Her face was impassive but I sensed that his assumption had irritated her. "What I'm saying is that our objective is to find Reid. That's all. We'll liaise with the Organised Crime Unit, who will be aiding us in this investigation, and _when_ we bring Reid home safely, they will continue working the other abductions, while we return to our usual caseload."

"We believe that Reid was on the trail of a specific individual," Hotch asserted now, "And that he was discovered by that individual, who then gave the order for his abduction. It's possible he was taken to establish how much he knows and may have told us about the other disappearance, while Emily and JJ were left injured as a warning to us not to investigate. If that is the case, we only have as long as he can hold out to find him, and our interference in the case may not be taken well."

"But if we find out who Reid was onto, we find out who ordered his disappearance?" Morgan confirmed. "How are we planning on doing that exactly?"

Emily nodded towards Garcia, who clicked a button on her remote, filling the projector screen with a mass of near-incomprehensible computer code. None of us made any attempt to analyse it independently, although I'm sure Reid would have given it a shot, were he here.

"In order to keep control of their organisation," Emily explained, "Crime bosses often keep scrupulous records. They command a huge flow of information and may utilise sophisticated technology to organise and conceal it. This is a fragment of the information that Garcia was able to retrieve from the home of one suspect under Reid's instruction."

"And you understand this, Garcia?" I assumed, watching as our technical analyst jumped to her feet.

She was excited, I realised. As she spoke, she gesticulated widely, and she couldn't seem to get the words out fast enough. She had something?

"I've been going through the data again, trying to make sense of what little I've got, and although it's been coded, what I gather is that we're looking at a series of transactions." She changed the slide to show a rough translation she'd been working on with a Bureau linguist. "We've got names," she said gleefully. "Not a lot—but almost all of them correspond to the names of missing persons we've flagged as possible victims. And they seem to be paired with prices, dates, and what _may_ be locations—we haven't figured those out yet."

The juxtaposition between Garcia's words and her peppy tone of voice was extreme, and she seemed to realise it because she paused before resuming her explanation in a far more demure tone. "It's enough to get you guys a warrant to claim his computer for me. Hopefully when I've got access to all the data, instead of just this tiny tidbit, I'll be able to tell you something about Reid."

"Dave, Morgan, and JJ, I want you to do that right away. It's an hour's drive; Garcia will give you everything we have on the guy and you can read it on the way. She'll also be going with you because we haven't got time to transport the computer back to Quantico. I've let the local PD know you'll be setting it up there," Hotch directed. "Emily, Curtell's been unresponsive to questioning so far but he seems to like playing games, so I want to see what happens when I take you in."

"Absolutely," Emily replied, without hesitation, and I felt my stomach knot of the idea of her talking to that smug bastard. He'd already taunted Garcia and I with his apparent knowledge of Reid's whereabouts. He was going to manipulate her in any way he could.

"Then that's it," Hotch concluded. "Get moving."

* * *

"His name's Luke Carmino, he's 43-years-old, owns a shipping yard," I read from the hastily assembled file. "It doesn't get much more 'mobster' than that—easy access to shipping routes makes all sorts of illegal activities a piece of cake. You can import and export drugs, weapons, and even people, while minimizing the access other authorities have to your shipments."

"Okay, so that's not surprising," Morgan agreed. He was driving, of course—he needed to feel control of the situation. On the drive back from our remote safe house it hadn't been twenty minutes before he displaced the driver into the back seat and took over the wheel. "Is there anything about this guy that sticks out? Maybe something that could have drawn Reid to him?"

"He's clean as a whistle," Rossi pointed out. "Common criminal types involved in organised crime tend to have have rap sheets longer than the list of people preceding them in the British ascendency. But, ironically, the worst of them are clean. We're not going to nail this guy with a parking ticket like the Son of Sam."

"No, we're going to nail him because Penelope's going to find everything we need on that computer," Morgan replied, with a quick glance back at Garcia.

I felt her stiffen beside me and squeezed her hand subtly. Reid's safety was riding on her hacking into one of the most complex security systems she'd seen in a long time, and she had no idea of what Carmino may have done to further secure it since she'd last hacked in. For all she knew, every ounce of evidence was long gone by now. If it was, we had nothing against him.

I glanced at the digital clock below the car radio, in between Rossi and Hotch's seats. It'd be another 45 minutes until we arrived. And what about Emily and Hotch? They were probably already in with Curtell.

Something about my appearance must have given my concern away, because Garcia squeezed my hand back. I tilted my head towards her and our eyes met. She offered a weak smile.

It was early evening by the time we arrived at Luke Carmino's house. It was pristine, almost unlived in. It could easily have been a lush centerfold in one of the glossy home and garden magazines arrayed on the table in his living room. I had the uncomfortable impression that he'd been waiting for us.

Carmino welcomed us in with the air of a gracious host. I noticed that he turned a particularly intimate smile towards Garcia and found myself stepping in between them defensively. He obviously knew very well that it was her who had illegally accessed his computer, and he knew very well that we were now here to confiscate it with full authority. Still, he gave the impression of complete control. He must have been expecting this since Reid's disappearance; of course we'd retrace his footsteps back here.

"If you could show us to your computer, Mr Carmino," Morgan directed, too politely.

"Of course, agent, once I see your warrant," Carmino replied, equally so.

Morgan produced the warrant, and I noticed the way that Carmino purposely brushed their hands together as he took it. A power play. Morgan didn't react.

We all watched Carmino read the warrant, right down to the fine print. He smiled to himself as he did so, nodding appreciatively. "Well then, of course I must lead the way."

"Quickly, if you don't mind," Morgan pushed, but Carmino's nature seemed to be an excessively leisurely one. Careful, controlling, narcissistic, aged in his 40s—he fit the profile of someone who could hold significant power within the organisation. His helpfulness set us on edge, rather than putting us at ease.

"Here it is," he announced as we arrived in what must have been his study.

I saw Garcia's face turn pale at the sight of the computer, and was all too aware of Carmino's keenness to her reaction.

"I-is that the only computer you own?" she asked, her voice tight with the exertion of quelling a rising panic.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Carmino replied. "Is this not what you're looking for? The warrant is concerning my personal computer, correct? I think you'll find that this is the only computer registered in my name."

I didn't doubt it—yet this was clearly not the computer Garcia had hacked into a couple of weeks ago. Standing stiffly in Carmino's study, I think we all knew we'd reached a dead end. It wasn't a matter of deleted files that could be retrieved with enough skill, this was an entirely different machine. Garcia wouldn't find a thing. At the same time, we couldn't turn back and expose ourselves, even though he was already clearly aware about the breakin. Morgan and Rossi exchanged a look and then moved forward to lift the computer. Were we really going to just leave with this useless thing, forcing Garcia to analyse it down to its minutia?

"Mr Carmino," I stalled, "Would you mind us taking a look around before we go?"

"Agent, I'm afraid your warrant doesn't extend beyond my personal computer," Carmino replied. His tone was painfully earnest, and his brow was dramatically furrowed. "I'm happy to offer you a pot of coffee, but I really can't have you disturbing the house. My wife would not be at all pleased to return to a mess."

"Well, I just thought that since you've been so kind and accommodating up to this point..." I suggested, choosing my words carefully, "You mightn't mind showing us around. Your wife does keep a lovely house."

I knew that Carmino was seeing right through me and yet he agreed, seeming quietly amused. "You men may take the computer out to your vehicle," he told Rossi and Morgan. "The ladies, I will show around the house. Ladies are, after all, far more interested in such things."

I met Rossi's eyes, indicating to him that it was all right to leave us, and he nodded graciously in Carmino's direction. "That's very kind of you," he said. I watched him quell Morgan's innate protestation with a glance, and the two of them left, carrying the PC.

The next few minutes would be crucial. It was a game that Carmino was playing with Garcia and I, and the boys weren't to be in on the fun. Instinct told me that once Morgan and Rossi returned our chance would have passed, we'd be ushered out.

"What is it that you were hoping to see, Agent Jareau?" Carmino asked pleasantly.

I thought on my feet.

Both Reid and Garcia had been in this house, yet only Reid had been taken. A guy like Carmino, who was involved in such a huge number of abductions and who had access to the men who perpetrated them, would have had no trouble arranging Garcia's disappearance as well.

Curtell hadn't wanted Garcia at the hospital—she'd been there by chance—and he'd lain in wait outside _my_ room, not Emily's. Was that because Rossi, Morgan, and Hotch had been in Emily's room at the time? I didn't think so. Curtell was patient and it had been the middle of the day. He could easily have waited for them to leave and taken her instead. She would have been far easier to subdue with her broken arm and gunshot wound.

So Curtell had been after me specifically. He'd even said so, I remembered now—that he'd take me to Reid. _Not both. Only you, Agent Jareau._ Which meant he thought Reid had told me something and that Carmino probably thought the same. But he _hadn't_. I didn't know there was a single thing going on with Reid until he was on my doorstep, drugged to the point of incoherence!

…On my doorstep? I'd assumed that Reid ran into trouble in my area and came to me looking for sanctuary; that he knew he couldn't defend himself in such a state and subconsciously sought out the nearest person he knew that could. But that was too much of a coincidence for me to believe now. Reid had found out something that he'd wanted to tell me specifically. He'd been stopped before he had the chance.

Had he found it out in this house?

When they'd broken in, Garcia had been busy with the computer in the study. If Reid had found something, it was while he was looking out for her, making sure that nobody came home and interrupted them. Carmino's car was parked out front. It made sense that he'd stay in the front of the house so that he'd see if someone was pulling into the drive.

What was at the front of the house? The living room, on one side; the kitchen on the other. The kitchen had a side door leading outside.

_I'm happy to offer you at pot of coffee_, Carmino had said.

If this was a game he was playing with us, then whatever Reid had seen, he'd seen it in the kitchen. And it was something that I would need to know, or that I would understand, more than anyone else in the team.

I met Carmino's eye. He was waiting, not impatiently. He wanted to see what I'd decide.

"I actually think I'd like that pot of coffee," I announced.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN./ Plotty plotty plot. I'm surprised at myself that I've actually plotted my way through two cases so far! :O Promise more fluff WILL come! –Bec xx**

**Chapter 16**

Carmino's kitchen, much like the rest of his house, was pristine. It also looked like just about every other kitchen I'd ever seen, although it probably cost more. A ceiling to floor bookshelf beside the fridge contained a veritable library of cookbooks, which were the only thing in the room to appear even slightly used. A single recipe, seemingly cut from a woman's magazine and tacked to the fridge, was the first suggestion I'd seen that anyone else lived in the house. Carmino disposed of it almost as soon as we entered the room. It disappeared into a trash bin, politely concealed in the cupboard under the sink. The meal was _La truffe sous la cendre. _All I could tell you about that is that they don't serve it anywhere you can afford to eat on a Bureau salary.

Carmino brewed the coffee while gesturing easily for us to take a seat at the table. I took he one facing the window and looked out, as Reid must have done to ensure no one disturbed he and Garcia on that day several weeks ago. From this position I could see Carmino's expensive car sitting in the driveway, but, were he sitting in it, he'd probably be able to see me too. It took me a few moments to realise that what I _couldn't_ see was our car—nor either Rossi or Morgan. A sideways glance at Garcia revealed that she had already observed this and was uneasy about it. I tried to put it out of my mind.

For now, I'm Reid. I want to be able to see the driveway at all times without being seen and the best place to do that is from beside the fridge. If it comes to it, I'll be able to step behind it, out of the sight of the car, at the least notice. If I ducked down I could almost certainly get to the side door and slip away without being seen. …Except that I don't want to slip away.

My goal is to ensure that Garcia isn't caught at the computer. That means I need a spot to keep me out of sight that is closer to the _internal_ door than the extrnal one. If someone arrives, I'll want to move quickly back through the house to warn her, and we'll leave out the back door, not the side door.

"How do you take your coffee, agents?" Carmino inquired, and I replied that I took it with milk and no sugar, while Garcia stood to make hers herself. She was very picky about her coffee but she was also, I realised, drawing his attention to give me some leeway to look around. Why don't we bring her into the field all the time?

Behind the bookcase—there's no other easily concealed position close to the interior door that would've provided a good enough view of the driveway. And, of course, if I'm Reid, I need to take notice of the books I find there.

I stood now and moved over to the bookcase, running my eyes over it as thoroughly as possible while still appearing casual. It contained cookbooks exclusively. Some were new, others well used, and almost all of them were expensive; the kind you buy from a restaurant after an exceptional evening, even though you know you'll never be able to replicate the dishes yourself. The books ranged in provenance from Italy to France to the Greek islands and were meticulously organised. Only one stood out to me. On the one night I'd spent in Paris with Emily, having provided her with everything she needed to begin again after falsifying her death, she took me to eat on the Champs-Elysees. A place called _Epicure_. I'd seen one of these cookbooks before, resting on a stand just inside the doorway at that restaurant.

I knew that there wasn't any way Carmino knew that, yet that book—alone out of all the others—was not in its appropriate place on the precisely organised shelf. A tiny scrap of paper, barely noticeable and right near the spine of the book, seemed to be marking a page approximately two-thirds of the way through. None of the other books were marked in any way.

Carmino might not have known I'd been to that restaurant, but Reid did. Once Emily returned, he'd been upset with me for keeping the fact of her survival from him. I knew her loss had hurt him, tempted him towards his demons; I knew he'd only narrowly retained control by coming to me almost every night. We'd always been close, but we grew even closer as he cried on my couch for all those months. When it came out that I'd known all along about Emily's survival, I honestly thought I was going to lose him. So I told him everything. I even described the night we'd shared at _Epicure_ and the walk we'd taken along the Champs-Elysees and down the Seine. I told him how, in the following months, I played online scrabble with her almost evey day under the name _Cheetobreath_…

"Something interests you, agent?" Carmino asked, bringing my coffee over to the table as Garcia lost his attention.

I smiled, running my fingers across the tops of the books on the shelf, checking the page number and removing Reid's marker, hopefully without arousing suspicion. With the marker concealed in my hand, I accepted my coffee before subtly transferring it to my pocket.

"You're very well travelled, Mr Carmino," I remarked easily. "And you have very good taste in restaurants."

"My wife has a great love of cooking," Carmino demurred, "And I have a great love of eating her food."

"Where is your wife?" Garcia asked—something I'd been wondering myself. If the cleanliness of the house and the preparation of meals was usually her domain, then why was she still out close to 7pm. Surely a man like Carmino would expect to be fed something expensive and complex in not too long?"

"Tonight is Clara's night to read at the nursing home," he answered. "In fact, I really ought to be leaving now, to pick her up. I'm sorry to cut our conversation short…"

As he stood, so did I, and Garcia followed. We watched each other's backs as he led us to the door.

"What has become of your friends?" Carmino asked, seemingly concerned as we reached the front step.

I frowned and called Morgan without replying, he picked up immediately.

"Is everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Of course everything's fine," I replied, keen to the fact that Carmino was both listening and watching my expression, standing at my side. "Where are you?"

"Local field office," Morgan replied. "I'll explain when you get here. A cop car is on its way to collect you from Carmino's house. You know what he'll say to confirm his identity."

His and Rossi's disappearance was slightly unnerving, leaving Garcia and I without backup, but at least they were all right. I assumed it meant they'd found something that couldn't wait.

"They had to leave suddenly," I explained when I'd hung up the phone. "Please go on, Mr Carmino. We've a ride coming, we can wait out on the street. Wouldn't want to keep your wife waiting."

"No, not at all," Carmino responded, and I got the impression that he, like us, hadn't been expecting this development. His reluctance to go was clear but unwarranted. There was no way we could risk getting back into the house without the time or equipment necessary for Garcia to undercut security. Thankfully, the police car pulled up right away. Carmino watched from the porch as I leaned forward to hear the whispered code the driver gave. Since the abductions were being perpetrated by men posing as ambulance services, we weren't about to take the risk of assuming anyone's authority based on a uniform or a vehicle. I had him show me his badge for good measure though, and then Garcia and I got in the car.

When we'd rounded the corner, Garcia let out a sigh. "I guess we should call Hotch and tell him we've got nothing."

I didn't reply, but shifted my hips forward so that I could retrieve the slip of paper I'd taken from the cookbook in Carmino's kitchen.

"Did he give that to you?" Garcia asked, her eyes rounding in surprise.

I shook my head. "I think… Based on where I found it, it's possible that Reid left it."

I unfolded the slip of paper, extremely aware of Garcia's eyes, moon-like, following the movement. I only hoped it was worth it.

We both leaned in, read the note, and pulled back.

It was a license plate number.

* * *

"What have you found?" I asked, nearly breathless with hope as I entered the police station. Garcia immediately left my side, streaming for a computer terminal and upseating the officer working there without explanation. Rossi and Morgan watched her begin to type furiously and then turned to me.

"What have _you_ found?" Morgan retorted.

I handed him the slip of paper and explained as succinctly as I could. "I found this hidden in a cookbook. Specifically, in a cookbook that was out of place in the room, and which came from a restaurant that Reid knows Emily and I visited in Paris." I ignored Morgan's raised eyebrow. "It's a plate number. With his eidetic memory he wouldn't have needed to write it down, but he may have left it in the book as insurance, in case he never got a chance to tell anyone what he'd seen. He must have hoped that Garcia would lead us to the house and that either Emily or I would see that book out of place, recognise it, and find his message."

"It was more than a week before Reid's disappearance that he was in that house," Morgan argued. "If he had a suspect, why didn't he just bring us in on the case, tell us himself?"

"Oh, sweet Jesus, this isn't just any suspect," Garcia moaned, looking up from her screen. "These plates belong to an _ambulance_. An ambulance that Reid probably saw arriving at Luke Carmino's house from the kitchen that day. And this was within days of Winnie's abduction—she could well've still been in it!"

"Garcia, get an APB out on that ambulance immediately," Rossi ordered.

"Can do better than that, sir," Garcia replied with a shake of her head. "Most ambulances now employ GPS tracking systems so that dispatchers can send the closest available parademics to a scene in an emergency, and so that the hospital knows how long it's going to take them to arrive so they can prepare. This looks like a legitimate ambulance—I've got it on the move right now. It seems to be en route to the nearest hospital."

Morgan immediately reached for his phone and dialed Garcia, who answered, confused, without holding it up to her ear.

"We're going after it," he declared. "Keep us on the line. I want to know every turn those sons of bitches take."

* * *

In the car, Rossi told me that they'd left Carmino's house because they'd had a call from Hotch, who'd finished interviewing Curtell with Emily.

"He was taunting them," he explained. "Kept saying how he knows where Reid is, telling us all these little details about him. Most of it we couldn't confirm; it could've been total bullshit he was sprouting. Still, it got under Emily's skin."

"Please don't tell me she aggravated him," I sighed. For all her careful compartmentalization, if you actually managed to get Emily mad she was a sight to behold in more ways than one.

"And of course, it only encouraged him," Morgan confirmed, nodding. "He said we should've let him take you to see Reid—that the kid was pining for you, all drugged up and constantly reliving your first date in September of '06."

I felt anger flare up inside me at that. I'd been trying to shake the feeling that this case was Tobias Hankel all over again: the same trauma, the same pharamaceutical escape, the same addiction to deal with when it was all through, if it was ever through. This wasn't helping. Just like that night, years ago, I'd let us get separated. I hadn't protected him.

But as the rest of Morgan's words sank in, I felt the air being pushed out of me. "…You said September?"

Morgan's face, which up to now had been solemn, broke into a brief grin as he glanced at me. "Emily didn't pick up on that," he informed me. "She wasn't even around then. But she did take notice when Curtell told her it'd been the Cowboys you'd gone to see—how excited you'd been to see them crush the Redskins 21-4 at Texas Stadium."

"Because it's not your team, is it?" Rossi elaborated. "We all know that."

"It's not even the right game," I replied, dumbfounded. "It was 2006, but we saw them play in November, at Fed-ex-Field. The Redskins beat the Cowboys 22-19; it was one of the few games we won that year. Reid wouldn't have forgotten."

"I don't think he did," Rossi agreed. "These guys are taunting us and they're probably taunting him too. I think he made a show of reliving the wrong game, hoping someone would pass on the message."

"What _message_?" I sighed. My headache was returning and I wasn't sure I could deal with any more riddles. Why hadn't Reid just come out and _said_ any of this! Why'd he have to do it all alone? He was as bad as Emily when it came down to it.

"The message is Dallas," Morgan told me. "It's Texas. 21-4 isn't the score, it's an area code. It's how you dial into the Dallas metropolitan area."

"You think he got from my place to Dallas by ambulance?" It was beyond belief—that had to be a 19 hour drive.

"I'm thinking it's a good bet," Garcia's voice piped up. "I'm pulling up GPS records for the ambulance you're tailing. It makes that trip to Dallas around the same time _every week_, and Texas is one of the biggest centres of human trafficking in the country."

"We're pulling up to the hospital right now," Morgan relayed. "When the patient is clear, we'll making the arrest. Baby girl, call Hotch and let him know. We'll be back as soon as we can, and we'll meet him on the jet."


	17. Chapter 17

**AN./ Sorry it's a short chapter today, but I wanted to post something at least! Plus it was easier for me to break the chapter here than later :) Remember to leave a review if you're enjoying this fic or if you have any comments—reviews, as always, are what keep me going! –Bec xx**

**Chapter 17**

"Hotch, you can't leave me behind," Emily was pleading lowly as I walked into the bullpen. "I did what you said. I stayed here while the others went to search Carmino's place, I helped with Curtell's interrogation—"

"Agent Prentiss, if you want to talk about doing what you're told, then let's talk about the rules regarding relationships within the Bureau, let alone within this team," Hotch snapped back, equally quietly. "Or, even better, let's talk about the fact that I've got a member of my team hurting herself and not only was I not told, but you're still not seeing anyone about it!"

"I'm sorry if I made you look bad—"

"This isn't about _looking bad_, Prentiss; this is about being able to trust the people on my team." Hotch's tone was angry and final—I didn't know why she was arguing. "I will not authorize you to come with us to Dallas. If for no other reason, then because you're injured! You do actually realise you've been shot, don't you? And that you've got one arm in a cast?"

"How am I supposed to regain your trust if you don't let me back in the field," Emily insisted. "These bastards _took Reid _from right under our noses!"

Her voice was rising. I had to step in before she said something even Hotch couldn't save her from.

"Emily," I interrupted. "You need to calm down."

It didn't have exactly the desired effect.

Emily whirled toward me, narrowed her eyes, and stalked off, leaving Hotch looking tired and unsettled in front of me. This was not the Emily he knew and worked with, and I was torn between my loyalties. Did I go after her and talk it out? Did I take Hotch's side? Maybe if I talked to Hotch I could somehow explain Emily's behaviour... But that was stupid. Emily was so clearly in the wrong here, I didn't know how to handle it.

"She's not herself," I tried, my brow furrowing in concern. "I know…" Swallowing, I glanced over my shoulder and saw her turn towards the women's bathrooms. "I know she acted badly—"

Hotch shook his head, although I knew he wasn't disagreeing with me. "I can give her some leeway until we find Reid," he divulged. "But if she keeps having outbursts like this in the middle of the bullpen, there isn't much I can do. I need to have control of my team; for God's sake, I need to at least have the appearance of it."

"I know, Hotch," I sighed, repeating myself. "She acted badly."

Hotch sighed as well. None of us were very good at concealing our emotions right now. "See if you can talk to her before we go," he suggested. "Wheels up in thirty."

* * *

Only one of the cubicles was filled when I entered the bathroom, but I still called out to check.

"Emily?"

I heard a deep, shaking breath. "Go away, Jennifer."

"There are more private places we can have this conversation, Em."

"We're not having a conversation," Emily rebutted. "You're leaving."

"You know I'm not."

Glancing around, I noticed a yellow "Cleaning in Progress" sign leaning unused against a sink and took a moment to move it outside. Hopefully it'd allow us at least a short period of privacy.

"Please go, Jen," came Emily's voice. Her tone was hard and yet, I thought, softening at the edges. I heard another sharp intake of breath.

"Just open the door," I begged. I had a fairly good idea of what she was doing in there. "This can't be your first resort every time something hurts too much to process. Why can't you talk to me? Why is _that_ harder for you to do than _this_?" Now I was fairly sure I heard a sob and I leaned against the door, desperate to be closer to her. "Please, Em… Tell me why. I want to help."

"Because you won't always be here," Emily answered, and now I knew she was crying. Her voice was dissolving, and I yearned to be on the other side of that door. I didn't care what I found there, I just needed to help her, hold her. "I can't rely on you." Her words were breaking my heart.

"Em," I whispered, "I'm going to be here for you for as long as you let me, and for as long after you stop as I can bear. I know that doesn't gel with most of what you've experienced in the past, but when you were fifteen and you wanted to kill yourself, there was a boy you allowed to save your life. You told Tabitha Burnam you were grateful for it, so please let me help you; I promise someday you'll be glad of this too."

I wanted to tell her I loved her. But then I wasn't sure how many more times I could utter those words without hearing them back. I leaned, conflicted, against the door and tried to regain control of my emotions; tried to tell myself that her lack of faith in me wasn't personal—it was just how she was right now, how she felt she had to be.

"Can you refill this for me?" Emily asked eventually and a water bottle appeared under the door. I took it, glad that if she'd been hurting herself, at least she was at the point of cleaning them now. If she ever moves in with me, I thought, I'm going to take out all my bathroom doors and she's just going to have to deal with it.

I slipped the filled bottle back under the door and a few minutes later Emily emerged. I watched her move to wash her hands at the sink without a word. When she finished drying them, I stopped her escape by pulling her into my arms. I didn't need her to look at me, I just needed her to be there—solid and breathing and _still_ for once in her life. I leaned my cheek against her chest and was mildly surprised when I felt a soft kiss brush my ear. Her chin dipped to rest on my head.

"I'm here," I murmured. "And I swear to God, Emily, I always will be. So please, before you do that again, will you come to me? Please?"

"I've been doing that for years, _Cheetobreath_, before you even knew," came Emily's husky reply, her breath warm against my cheek. "It's just getting harder to do it _every_ time..."

My arms tightened around her. "Do it anyway."

Emily's activities in the bathroom stall had seemed to calm her down for now and I felt her fingers travel my back lightly. Her tears had stopped and the shakiness was gone from her voice.

"You've got a plane to catch, Jenny," she whispered into my hair, and I struggled not to let the pet name affect me.

"Ten more minutes," I whined softly, pressing into her. "Em… You scare me so much. I don't want to leave you."

I felt Emily stiffen slightly and pull away, her hands gripping my biceps and keeping me at a distance. "Reid needs you," she told me, and her eyes were clearer now, more alert. "Don't you dare worry about me. You almost have him."

"Garcia tracked the ambulance taking the same route to Dallas every Sunday. It always ends up outside the same property," I told her. "We don't know what we'll find, or how long the victims are kept there before being moved by other means, but we've got a warrant. We have to find something this time."

"I heard what you found at Carmino's house," Emily reassured me. "If Reid's left us something in Dallas, there's no way you won't see it."

"I'd rather find Reid…"

Emily's words had only tightened the knot of fear that'd been coiling itself in my stomach since Reid's disappearance. Why did it feel like this case was all about me, as well as him? Why had he come to my house, why had he left the clue in that cookbook for _me_? How was I involved? I tried not to let my anxiety show, but I know Emily caught it. Her lips touched mine for a brief second before she let me me go.

"Go save our boy, Jen," she told me. "I'll still be here when you get home."

* * *

It was strange to be on the jet without Emily and Reid. When I walked in Morgan was already there, waiting. Without trying to be rude, I picked a seat away from him, but he got up and joined me anyway.

"Everything cool, JJ?" he asked. I saw the way his body was angled toward mine, indicating that I had his full attention. His question was not as casual as he made it sound.

"Copacetic," I replied. As lies went, it was unconvincing, but Morgan didn't have time to question me before Hotch and Rossi walked in.

"Ready?" Hotch asked, glancing around. His expression made me think that he, too, had subconsciously expected to see the rest of the team waiting with us. He turned to me. "How was Emily when you left?"

I shook my head noncommittally. "Better."

He knew better than to pry and read from a file as we took off. "Although crime in the state has been on a downward trend in recent years, Dallas remains an American hotspot for both international and domestic human trafficking. Interstate 10 is considered the most popular trafficking route in the country and more than 30% of its total length is in Texas. There's a thriving sex trade in the state, which preys primarily on runaways and otherwise vulnerable youths, while illegal crossings into and out of Mexico are also greatly concerning." He looked up now. "When we arrive in Dallas, one of the first things we'll want to find out is whether our victims are still within the US, or whether they're being transported to Mexico, potentially with the aim of moving them more easily into other countries from there. But there's not much for us to learn until we get there."

"What's at the address we got from the GPS?" I asked, realising suddenly that I didn't know.

"An abandoned warehouse," Rossi volunteered. "Isn't it always?"

Hotch smirked humourlessly. We were all losing patience with this case. "We'll go in with a SWAT team, and if we're lucky that's where we'll find Reid."

"If we're lucky," Morgan echoed quietly.

Emily called as we were getting ready to land.

"You haven't got me on speaker, have you?" was the first thing she asked.

"No," I replied, leaning towards the window and away from Morgan with his dark eyes full of concern.

"I'm calling because— You know why I'm calling, don't you?" Emily's voice was small. She wasn't used to asking for help. "Anyway you're still in the air, right? I'm not disturbing anything?"

"We're about ten minutes out of Dallas," I replied.

"I should hang up then, if you're going to land."

"Hang on a sec, Em—" I paused, glanced around the cabin. Hotch and Rossi were far enough away not to hear, but Morgan was right beside me. I chewed my lip and spoke anyway, keeping my voice low. "Are you safe right now?"

"I'm fine," Emily tried, but I cut her off.

"That's not what I asked and you know it."

Morgan met my eye as I waited for a response. He didn't say anything but his hand dropped to cover mine subtly and I let my eyes close, desperate to stem the fear rising in my chest.

"Yeah," Emily eventually replied. "I'm sorry I called."

"Em, don't be—"

"No, you need to be thinking about Reid, I—I'm being stupid."

"It's not stupid," I whispered. "Please don't hang up."

"I'm sorry. I'll talk to you when you get back."

The sound of the dial tone filled me with dread and yet Emily was right, I had to shake it off. I extracted my hand from Morgan's unsentimentally and ignored his attempts to reestablish eye contact. In fact, I didn't lift my eyes from the window once until we were safely on the ground in Mexico. Great. Now she had _me_ compartmentalizing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**AN./ So far no one but my sister has noticed my typo in the last line of last chapter :P Just to clarify, the team (minus Prentiss) is in Dallas, Texas; not in Mexico! –Bec xx**

As we milled in a surveillance van, parked just up the street from the Dallas warehouse, I had a vision of Emily. She was standing beside me, strapping on her Kevlar vest and tying her hair into the oh-so-practical ponytail she favoured when things got messy. Her feet were squarely set in line with her shoulders, the toes pointed out in that supremely confident, extroverted fashion of hers. She leaned a little into her right hip, and her belt buckle was off-centre, skewed to the same side. She checked her gun, her face blank but eyes determined.

In the image I had of her, Emily wore her hair straight. Her bangs were neatly aligned and her hair was dyed a few shades darker than I knew was natural for her. The ends were evenly and precisely cut; not a strand was out of place. In that image she was unassailable, efficient. It made me think of her in the bathroom where I'd left her that morning—her eyes red and shadowed by deep bags; her hair curling naturally because she hadn't been focused enough to straighten it since Reid's disappearance; her stance tight and defensive, giving the impression that she was folding into herself.

We all had bad days but this was becoming the norm. Surely there had to be an Emily somewhere between the pristinely perfect agent and the unremittingly depressive woman? I wanted to date her, love her, please her; I wanted to be enough for her. Out of nowhere I was sickened by the selfish impulse behind my concern. When had it become all about me?

"Garcia, how are you doing hacking into the security feed?" Hotch called, and Garcia's voice chimed back:

"I'm almost there, sir. Just give me a few more minutes and I should have eyes inside the warehouse for you."

In the mean time, Hotch addressed those of us assembled. We were all prepped in Kevlar and fitted with multiple weapons. The SWAT team wore helmets with the visors tilted back, or held them under their arms.

"We've got a no-knock warrant for these premises," he declared. "So we'll be going in quietly. We don't want to give these unsubs a chance to react; our primary aim is to subdue them and secure any civilian victims we may find in the building. This is a minimal loss scenario. There will be casualties. We've notified emergency services and they're on the alert for our call, but we can't allow them to enter the building until it's been fully secured, so we'll need to do that as quickly as possible."

"If Garcia can get eyes inside, we'll enter in two groups," Rossi took over. "One from the east and one from the west. If she can't, we'll be sending in two person recon teams to gather intel beforehand. We accept that, by entering the building, we risk provoking a hostage situation. However, it will not be easy to negotiate with these unsubs. Our best bet is to enter as silently as possible and catch them off guard. If Garcia can hack the security feed, she'll be putting their cameras on a loop to conceal our entrance. We'll give her a few more minutes, but once they figure out we're here it's going to get ugly, so the less time we spend out here waiting, the better."

"I'm almost there, G-man. Don't get your goatee in a tangle…" Garcia muttered. "Just working out the final kinks, and the good news is: they seem pretty oblivious in there." A few moments pause, then— "_Who's your queen? _I'm in. I'm looping yesterday's security footage to those watching inside, but what you're seeing on your screens right now is live."

And indeed the monitors crowding the interior of the surveillance van were all lighting up. Our current position was just out of reach of the warehouse cameras, but the patch of street directly outside it was visible, as were, increasingly, views from inside. Over the next few seconds more and more screens flared to life.

"Whoa boy, that's a lot of cameras," Garcia commented. "Thankfully, they are now just about useless to our unsubs and will hopefully be very useful to you guys."

"You're amazing, Garcia," I called, earning myself a wink from the one screen that still displayed her perky face.

"Anything for you, my blue-eyed girl."

"Screen 15," Hotch inserted unsentimentally. "And 11 through 13. Can you get a better picture on those?"

Garcia's eyes narrowed in concentration as she began to work on the images. "Done. This is as good as it gets."

She zoomed in to make it easier on us, and Morgan and I shared a grimace as rows upon rows of cages filled the screen. If it weren't so fundamentally unnecessary to imprison and guard corpses, I might've assumed they were dead. There was no way that any of these people could defend themselves against an attack. If the guards opened fire upon our arrival, we'd have a massacre on our hands in far less time than I was comfortable with.

"Fourth from the left, screen 12," Rossi directed our attention. "He's one of ours." Although slight, and looking thinner even than usual, Reid was easy to pick out as the only man amongst the prisoners. We'd been right about these abductors being primarily interested in women.

"Second from the right, screen 11," I pointed out. "That's Winnie Gardner from the women's shelter."

Now the SWAT team leader began to instruct his men, sectioning them off. I paired with Morgan and joined the group to enter from the east, while Hotch and Rossi aimed to enter from the west with the second group. There was little more discussion of tactics—take out individuals as quickly and quietly as possible, don't make a fuss until absolutely necessary.

We entered the warehouse like school children, in single file. In a SWAT team, the point man is the one at the front of the line who assumes the responsibility of subduing the most immediate threat upon entering a room. After that, the rest of the team follows, each pre-assigned a specific Area of Responsibility that stops them tripping over each other and allows the room to be cleared in short order. Morgan being the type to always want to lead, I was relieved when the SWAT guys pushed him toward the back of the line. The point man is the first one to be hit if you get caught off guard; he's a human shield for the rest of the team.

Thankfully, Garcia's voice in our ears kept us aware of potential dangers as they arose. I knew another agent had been sequestered to keep the team on the other side of the building informed, using a separate radio channel to avoid confusing us, but I didn't like that this meant we had no idea how Hotch's team was progressing without switching channels and potentially missing something more immediate.

…Are you supposed to feel guilty about shooting violent criminals, human traffickers?

I knew it wasn't a thought I wanted in my head until we were safely out of danger, so I kept Reid's face at the forefront of my mind and shot in full ethical blindness. He was our golden boy, our brother, our friend, and these were the people who had hurt him. I must have shot six or seven of them.

We pushed on through corridor after corridor, bounding up fire stairs and dodging bullets shot between the rails. By the time we were two-thirds of the way to Reid's location, these guys were well aware of our presence, although apparently befuddled by their inability to track us using surveillance cameras. It wasn't the first time I'd thanked the lord for Penelope Garcia and it wouldn't be the last.

One man went down on level three. We radioed it in and the SWAT tactical medic stayed behind to keep pressure on the wound and defend their position. The rest of us continued up the stairs and let off a flashbang when we came up to the first room containing civilians.

Loud and bright, flashbang grenades are less intended to injure than to stun. When we entered we took advantage of the ensuing chaos to fire straight down the aisle between the rows of cages. That was the only good thing about finding the civilians locked up: they couldn't wander into the line of fire. We took down four unsubs that way, cleared the room, and left behind two more SWAT team members to defend it. I refused to look into the faces of either the dead guards or their prisoners. We moved on.

"_JJ, behind you!"_

It was Emily's voice that shouted the warning in my ear.

I didn't even have time to turn before I heard a shot ring out. The unsub behind me went down instantly and one of the SWAT men we'd left with the first room of prisoners gave me a nod. I returned it shakily as he headed back the way he came. My heart pounded as I jogged to catch up with the others.

Of course Emily was watching on with Garcia—where else would she be? I choked back the wave of terror-bidden nausea that this realization brought out in me. I would not be the cause of any more of her nightmares. I needed to watch myself, get Reid, get us all out.

"You okay?" Morgan asked tensely as I rejoined him. He didn't look at me but his concern thickened the air between us. He'd heard Emily's shout through his earpiece too.

"Fine," I replied. "One of our guys took him out."

A brief nod from Morgan signaled the end of our conversation.

Another door was opened then and another flashbang grenade was thrown inside, exploding brightly. One shot made it out the door before it was closed. Our point man was dead almost instantly.

Morgan, me, and three other SWAT team members were all that remained of our group. One of those three cursed lowly but took the place of the point man and barged into the room, shouting as he shot.

As the smoke began to clear, Morgan yelled out, "Hold your fire!"

A few more rounds got off, hitting no one.

In the middle of the room stood a white male, aged in his mid-forties and heavily tattooed. In his left hand he gripped a small, powerful handgun, while his right arm was hooked tight around Reid's neck.

"This is the one you want isn't it?" he asked roughly. "So drop your weapons."

Morgan stepped forward, signaling us to take his lead as he lowered his weapon slightly. "Okay, man, we can do that. You're in control. But how about all these other people?" He gestured to the cages around us. "You've got the best bargaining chip in the place: a member of our team. Letting the others go would be a sign of good faith."

"Do you think I'm standing here in good faith, Agent Morgan," the man asked, rubbing the muzzle of his gun against Reid's temple assuredly. "Do you really want to take that bet?"

Morgan kept his face impassive. "So, you know my name. Is there something I can call you?"

"That depends, Agent Morgan," the man replied. "How long a conversation do you think this is going to be?"

"As long as it needs to be," Morgan replied unfalteringly. "Look, I'm putting my weapon away." He tucked it into its holster slowly.

"No. Put it on the ground," the man ordered, but Morgan shook his head.

"Hang on," he stalled. "Does that sound fair to you? If you've got a gun on my friend and I've got nothing on you?

"Agent Morgan, I'm counting five of you with guns right now. I don't think you want to make me desperate."

The gun this man still held pressed against Reid's head was more than enough to convince us not to push him. Morgan lowered his weapon to the ground as Reid, barely conscious, let out a moan.

"Kick it towards me."

Morgan did as he was told, focusing intently on Reid. "Hey, kid? You hear me?"

I heard Garcia's whimper over the radio as Reid blinked heavily. His eyes were dazed and dilated and his legs weren't doing much to support him. The muscular arm around his neck was all that held him upright.

"He doesn't get a lot, this one," the man answered in Reid's stead. His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Used to chatter like anything. Now he just sits, jitters, holds out his arm like a good boy… _You_." He was looking directly at me now. "You must be the lovely Jennifer Jareau."

"That's right," I confirmed. It was Emily I was channeling as I kept my response calm and unhurried.

"Doctor Reid talked a _lot_ about you," he teased.

"That's funny," I replied, "He's never mentioned you."

The wolfish grin I got in reply told me I'd made the right call. This one wanted to engage.

"So," I went on, "Tell me what I can call you."

"That depends," he drawled. "Can I call you Jennifer?"

I smiled stiffly and inclined my head toward him. "My friends call me JJ."

"And are you my friend then, JJ?" he teased and I bit back my disgust at the familiarity of his tone.

"I'm someone who wants to help you get out of here," I answered. "So what can I call you?"

The man's teeth showed as he smiled. "Call me Antoine, Jennifer."

"Antoine," I repeated. "Is there a last name that goes with that?"

"No, I don't think so," he tutted. "Information like that comes at a price…"

"_I'll cross-check the name 'Antoine' with police reports of gang activity anyway, Sugarplum. Keep him talking,"_ came Garcia's voice in my ear.

"So, let's talk about what you want, Antoine," I suggested. "Then maybe we can start thinking about letting these civilians go." I watched his gaze shift around the room. "You don't need them. You've got Doctor Reid, and you've got my complete attention."

"You're right," Antoine agreed. "Everyone else is surplus."

"You'll give me the key to the cages?" I confirmed, and he nodded.

"On the obvious condition," he replied.

I tried not to make a big show of swallowing the lump in my throat. "What condition?"

Antoine tilted his head toward me slightly. "You stay," he explained. "And Doctor Reid stays too. All these other useless people—all these stupid addicts—can leave, and so can every one of your agents."


	19. Chapter 19

**AN./ Sorry this chapter took so long and it's not even a long one! I've been busy with work and unsure about how to resolve this situation as well as procrastinating by other means and with other fics… However, I have finally written my way out and should hopefully be back to the cuteness and fluff I am so much better equipped to write soon! Thank you to those of you who have been reviewing and encouraging me in the meantime—it seriously helps! –Bec xx**

**Chapter 19**

_"You stay," Antoine explained. "And Doctor Reid stays too. All these other useless people—all these stupid addicts—can leave, and so can every one of your agents."_

It was too good a deal to refuse, although Morgan tried on my behalf. Half an hour later he and the remaining three SWAT agents had escorted every addled prisoner from the building but, of course, for Spence. Most went in a quiet daze, a few fought, and one let out an ear-splitting screech before smashing her head against Morgan's. I offered him a half-hearted smirk as he turned to leave, nursing quite a bruise, but his expression remained grave.

Antoine was calm throughout the process, and silent, but when the door closed and we were alone, he spoke clearly. "Are you going to leave your earpiece in, Jennifer? It hardly seems like I've got your full attention." There was a childish lilt to his voice; it was a tease but a dangerous one.

"It's a necessary precaution," I replied. "My friends have to know that Doctor Reid and I are all right. If I stop communicating they'll assume something is wrong and have to come in. You don't want that."

"I think it's _cute_, Jennifer, that you think you know what I want," Antoine said. Then, in a mocking way, he added, "Maybe we really are friends after all!"

"Okay, so tell me what you want, Antoine," I asked, trying to sound casual, as if the answer didn't _really_ matter to me. "You've got a friend of mine there and I'd like to get him back. Tell me what arrangement we can come to in order to make that happen." When he didn't reply, I tried another tack. "My friend Spencer looks a little worse for wear. Do you think we can get a medic in here with some water? Maybe get some food for yourself? If we're going to be here a while, we might as well get comfortable."

"I don't need anything," Antoine replied.

I spread my hands in a gesture of calm. "We all need something, Antoine, and I'm in the best position here to help you. Maybe we can sit down? Spencer isn't doing a whole lot of standing for himself. Your arm's probably getting sore."

I knew he wouldn't want to relinquish any degree of power by agreeing to sit but I hoped the team, listening in, got the message that Antoine could be worn down. I kept my own actions slow and deliberate, fighting not to fidget or touch my face. These are signs that a person is anxious or desperate, which means losing control in a hostage situation. I noticed that Antoine did the same. The playing field remained level and that was putting it optimistically. In reality, he was the one with the gun.

"Jennifer, do you know why Doctor Reid wanted to bring you here, in particular?" Antoine asked.

This too, I needed to respond to with only a mild level of curiosity. I needed to come across as interested in what he was saying, yet as though I wouldn't be bothered if he decided not to tell me. Inside, my heart was beating fast.

"You were supposed to see it," he teased. "You see, I met Doctor Reid, before he disappeared. I heard him speak at Narcotics Anonymous. He described his _terrifying_ first experience with Dilaudid, told us all how you two split up - how he was alone, just _waiting_ for you to find him..."

_"JJ," _this was Hotch's voice in my ear - they must all have got back out to the surveillance van. _"He's trying to get a rise out of you. He wants to force your hand. Don't let him."_

"He honestly thought you'd come, Jennifer," Antoine purred. "Just like he thought you'd come this time, that you'd follow his little clues and save him..."

"I did come," I breathed, trying to keep my voice even. "Both times, every time. Spence knows I'm here."

"_Spencer_ doesn't know his own name right now," Antoine pointed out, giving Reid a little jerk with the arm wrapped tight around his neck.

I watched Reid's eyelids flutter and heard a small organic sound escape his chest. No words.

"He's got such a crush on you, Jennifer. He holds you above all of the others, and what do you do? You come too late." His eyes flashed. "Twice. You've failed him _again_, Jennifer."

I gritted my teeth. "I'm right here."

_"JJ," _Hotch repeated warningly.

"What do you want, Antoine?" I asked again, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice. "You have a hostage, so you must want something. It can't be just to play this game with me. You must want to get out."

"Oh, you think I'm getting out of here, do you, _agent_?" Antoine chuckled. "I think we both know that's not happening…"

_"He's given up, JJ. We're coming in."_

"No, wait," I begged, hoping Antoine assumed I was still talking to him. And, fuck—my voice had cracked. "Tell me why you're so interested in Spencer and me."

Antoine tutted quietly. "Jennifer, you're losing your head…"

"And all three of us could only have minutes left to live if you don't give me something," I snapped back, probably breaking every rule in the hostage negotiation book. "So tell me. Why'd you attend Reid's meetings in the first place?"

"You know why," Antoine told me, sounding surprised for the first time since we started this. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't figured it out. There was a woman in his group who was onto us. She was gathering evidence. She was going to go to the cops. Her sister saw those two idiots we hired to grab her from her apartment—you must have found them to have found your way here—and the bitch asked Doctor Reid for help... You _know_ this, Jennifer_._"

"That's exactly what we know," I agreed. "But it doesn't make sense that you'd keep Reid alive. It doesn't make sense that you'd keep all these women in such a bad state if you were going to sell them, and yet Reid found transactions for each woman you abducted on a computer in Luke Carmino's house."

"That computer doesn't exist," Antoine reminded me, sounding faintly pleased.

"But it _did _exist," I insisted. "Women have been going missing for over a decade and some kind of a price was being paid for them, no - _is_ being paid for them…" I wanted to rest my head in my hands, to close my eyes and just _think,_ but I couldn't stop. "Antoine…" I spoke his name slowly.

_"No, it couldn't be… Garcia, can you get us a better angle on his face?"_

_"Sorry, princess, this is the only angle I've got."_

_"So enhance it."_

_"I'll do my best."_

"Whoever pays for these women doesn't care what state they're in," I stalled. "We assumed they were being moved on elsewhere and sold into prostitution, or maybe privately... What if they're not?"

"What if they're not?" Antoine repeated with a smirk.

_"JJ, we know who this guy is." _Garcia's voice in my ear. _"Emily's come across him before, through INTERPOL. He's a real whack job—contracts out to an offshore facility that conducts illegal 'scientific' testing on vulnerable human subjects. Looks like they're in cahoots with the American mob outta DC—Carmino's lot—which is how Reid got onto them in the first place. JJ? Hotch says to warn you we're coming in. We can't wait any longer. I'm going to count to ten and you're going to distract him as best you can without getting yourself killed. Jayj, that last bit is important! __**Do not **__get yourself killed!"_

This was too much, too fast, but at least I now had a time frame. I could pull myself together for ten seconds.

"You know what?" I baited Antoine.

His grin only broadened. "What?" he humoured me.

"I don't care what you've done."

"Oh, you don't, do you, _Jen_?"

"No," I replied, swallowing hard. "You could be Osama Bin Laden or you could be a fucking street thug." I registered his flicker of surprise at my use of profanity, the way his hand tightened on his weapon. "You have my friend and you're right. Last time I let us get separated; I failed him. I couldn't save him from what he went through with Tobias Hankel and that's been on my shoulders ever since. Well, this time I'm not going to fail him. I'm getting him out."

As Garcia counted _ten_ I launched myself forward and in the mad cacophony of sound and light and motion that ensued it felt like the whole world was tearing itself apart.

I saw only Reid.

* * *

Somehow I made it though the whole chaotic rescue without blacking out but it was a close call. Insisting on being taken in the same ambulance as Spence this time, despite the aggravation of the paramedics who had to deal with us, I was hardly sure which of us was more zoned out.

The wail of the sirens blended in with the stabbing and the prodding of the medics until I couldn't tell which sensations I was hearing and which I was feeling. It was all too much and too close, like the world was zoomed in and out of focus. I clung to Spence's hand like a lifeline. Once or twice he squeezed back.

By the time we reached the hospital, my head was clearing up but I still couldn't grasp Hotch's attempts to explain what had happened. I wasn't even sure at which point he'd arrived. Then my hair was being ruffled by Morgan. He was there too?

I was in bed. Oh God, I was sick of hospital beds. I knew that much.

_Wait_. Where'd Reid gone?

"He's going to be fine," I heard Hotch telling me. He sounded patient, like he'd said it before. "Go on and rest, JJ."

"No, Reid-"

"He's going to be fine."

"When you wake up again, we'll take you to see him," Morgan promised.

I swallowed and my throat was dry. "Am I okay? I feel weird…"

"We needed to disorient Antoine to have a chance at getting you both out of there safely," Hotch explained, sounding again like it wasn't the first time he'd done so. "You're suffering from the same confusion we put him through and you got knocked around a bit as well. Given your previous head injury, things are going to be a bit hazy for a while, but since you're awake and responding the doctors are optimistic."

It was the longest continuous string of dialogue I'd been able to grasp so far, so I was happy enough that my cognitive faculties were returning. "And Reid's okay?" I confirmed. I knew Hotch had said so already but I was desperate to hear it again.

Hotch seemed to understand. "Reid's being detoxed as we speak," he told me. "He's not feeling great but he's doing as well as can be expected. I promise you, I will take you to see him myself once you get some rest."

I nodded, feeling a wave of exhaustion washing over me. "I— Okay…" I agreed, past the point of protest. "And Emily—?"

"Has called at least twenty times," Morgan supplied with a smile. "We went ahead and told her exactly what we told you: that you and Reid are _both_ going to be fine. She and Garcia are flying down right now. They should be here by eleven thirty or so tonight."

"What time—?"

"_Uh-uh_, no more questions. Good_night_, JJ."

Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth anxiously, I found myself nodding, despite the pain it sparked in my head.

"Emily," I pleaded. "She's scared. Don't leave her alone. Please…?" I could already feel myself slipping out of consciousness and I chewed my lip harder, desperate to stay awake just a bit longer.

Morgan placed his hand on my arm and squeezed gently, focusing my attention. "Garcia's with her," he promised. "Listen, Jayj, we're a family. We're all going to do our part to look out for Emily, just like we're going to look out for Reid. It's time to relax and go to sleep now."

That assurance was all I needed to succumb.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN./ It looks like we have reached the end of the road, my faithful readers! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this, and I'm sorry the chapters slowed down towards the end. Please don't forget to leave me a review if you enjoyed this story - I have loved and still love hearing from you all. **Blows kisses** - Bec xx**

**Chapter 20**

Reid was asleep when Hotch finally returned to wheel me in. As he'd promised, he did it personally, reassuring me again that Reid was going to be fine despite the fact that he was hooked up to all kinds of machines. When I first saw him I had a vision that he woke up and started going through exactly what each one of them did—what the heart monitor was saying, what the IV drip was for—but he didn't wake up.

The rest of the team had booked themselves into a motel and Hotch left shortly afterwards to get some sleep. I stayed with Reid, holding his hand and trying not to notice how thin he was. He'd always been on the small side but I didn't know you could lose that much weight in less than a week. I was a friend, I reminded myself, not his mother. And anyway he was going to be fine.

I was still in with Reid when Garcia and Emily arrived just after eleven-thirty, even though at least three nurses had tried and failed to wheel me back to my room. I'd ended up cursing at the last one and pulling rank and I felt belatedly guilty about it now. Still, what could I do? If I saw her again I'd try to give her less grief but I wasn't planning on leaving. Spence had been alone and afraid all week.

"Jayj," Emily whispered from the doorway. Calling it a whisper was probably generous of me. I got the impression she'd intended my name to come out at full volume but her voice had failed at the last minute. She pulled a seat up beside my wheelchair and took my hand before looking properly at Reid. I think she was steeling herself for what she'd see when she did. It was a good idea.

Garcia went straight for him and seemed to be fighting herself not to just grab him up in a hug. She'd always been the direct one, in spite of appearances.

"I can't believe he's really back," she squeaked, and it seemed like her voice too was suffering. "Look at him! This whole hospital's got its work cut out dealing with everyone from the warehouse."

"It's going to be a while before we know exactly what went on in there," Emily added, giving my hand a squeeze. "But what you guys did was amazing, getting everyone out."

"We lost a couple of SWAT agents," I reminded her quietly. "I mean, I think— I don't really know what happened after."

"Only one of them died," Garcia told me. "Your point man. The other guy you saw fall is stable. He's in here somewhere. And there are a few more injured but I wouldn't worry. All the civilians got out safely too except for one, but we think she was dead before we arrived."

I swallowed tightly. I wasn't ready to go back into what had happened and silence fell. The three of us watched as Reid shifted and groaned.

"Is he waking up? Should we call someone?" Garcia worried.

I shook my head. "He's been doing that every so often for the past few hours," I explained. "He's pretty far out of it. Doctor says he probably won't wake up until tomorrow, maybe the day after. He said it'll be easier for him if he doesn't…"

"What do you mean?"

"They have to detox him," I said. "He's been doped up near-constantly for almost a week. It's not going to be fun."

Emily hummed contemplatively. "We still don't know how they got him the first time."

"I don't care anymore," I admitted. "I just want to get away from this case and feel safe again."

"You are safe," Emily promised, brushing a soft kiss across my cheek.

I nodded unconvincingly. "When I get home I'll have to sort out my place, won't I? They turned it upside down."

"We'll all help you with that," Garcia offered. "It won't even take an afternoon if we all chip in."

"And you can stay with me until it's sorted," added Emily. "Now, come on. Hotch said if you were still here when we arrived, then it was time to put you to bed."

I relented. I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

* * *

Contrary to what the doctor had told Hotch, it was almost three days before Reid woke up. We weren't to worry, he continued to insist. Reid's body had been through a lot of stress and it was just trying to patch him up a bit before he had to deal with the mental strain of waking up. I wasn't reassured and even Hotch was showing signs of wear around the eyes. We needed this nightmare to be over already.

The morning Reid woke up, I had finally got the wheelchair removed from my room. It made me feel like an invalid and just having it gone restored some small measure of strength to me. I walked to Reid's room virtually unaided, although Emily's hand at the small of my back probably served a lightly supportive function as well as a comforting one.

"Spence," I breathed, seeing his eyes open. "You scared the hell out of us!"

Unlike me, Reid seemed to understand where he was immediately and without looking around. Maybe he'd been hearing us all this time or maybe that brilliant mind of his was just working in overdrive to catch up. Either way, it made things easier.

"How long have I been asleep?" he croaked and I thought that was an optimistic way of putting it.

"Three days, just about," I said, then reconsidered. "Actually, I'm not sure you were really conscious when we arrived. It could've been longer."

"I was dreaming." Reid's voice was high-pitched, uneven. "I dreamed you came. I must've heard you."

"Or maybe you just trusted we'd find you," Emily offered and her smile was warm, loving. She'd always had a soft spot for Reid. "I'll get the doctor."

"I did trust you," Reid affirmed as Emily left. "I knew you'd get my messages."

I placed a hand over his gently. "Spence, the night you came… I didn't protect you—"

"JJ," Reid interrupted, sounding surprised. "I didn't want you to protect me. I needed them to take me to where they were holding Winnie. I— I gambled that I could _make_ them take me." His voice cracked but his eyes went on begging me to understand. "I only went to your apartment because I needed you to know something was wrong as quickly as possible—so you'd look for me before it was too late. I didn't expect them to follow me in."

"Spence, that's insane," I protested. "We've been out of our minds trying to figure you out when we could've been working on this as a team from the start! Why didn't you just come to us with the case?"

"I— I didn't know enough, JJ, and I…"

I watched Reid's guilt building and couldn't help but sigh. Hotch was going to tear into him if he found out Reid had put himself in this position on purpose, but I couldn't distress him any further. I was too glad to have him home.

"I saw Gillian Gardner yesterday. She's been in a few times, wanting to thank you for finding her sister." Reid seemed relieved to hear it and I realised he couldn't have known we'd saved her. There was still a lot for him to explain to us and for us to explain to him. "We got everyone out and… Well, some other things have happened since you've been gone, Spence."

Reid grinned feebly. "Like you and Emily?" he asked.

_What_ a goddamn marvel. This kid who saw everything and knew everything, who cared enough to put his life on the line for someone he didn't know. He'd even seen what was happening between Emily and me.

"Well, for one thing—yes," I found myself almost laughing.

"I already knew," Reid replied, genuinely happy. "Or at least I can say I suspected. Then when I turned up at your place and saw you together, I knew."

"Is that all you saw at my place that night?" I asked, wondering how to broach the second topic with him. The rest of the team knew—Spence would have to as well at some point.

"No, I saw the other thing too," Reid told me more seriously, confirming my suspicions. "The thing Emily was hiding when I came in. I assume everyone else knows too, if you're telling me."

I nodded, taking a slow breath in. "It all came out at the hospital after you disappeared." I was actually relieved not to have to explain it to him. "We got knocked around a little but we're fine…"

"You're taking care of her," Reid assumed and I nodded again as the doctor entered with Emily following behind. Garcia, who they'd met in the corridor, brought up the rear with a wide grin.

"There's my little genius!" Penelope cried, fighting the doctor for Reid's attention. "Win any Nobel prizes in your dreams?"

"No, but actually my mother did," Reid replied brightly.

"Well, you know what they say, like mother like son," Garcia chirped, which probably wasn't the best thing she could've said, given than Reid's mother lives full time in a sanatorium, but Reid took it as a compliment.

"Spencer Reid, it looks like you've had an interesting week," the Doctor put in—a pleasantly gruff, older man with a sardonic note of humour to his voice.

"Yes Doctor, I think you could say that," Reid agreed.

"You're a very lucky man."

"Statistically, I would have to agree."

I couldn't keep the grin off my face at Reid's response and Garcia laughed outright. It was just so good to hear his voice, his unintentionally goofy syntax. His was an element that had been missing from our team all week—an empty seat, one less coffee cup at the round table, an awkward silence that he would have filled in some unique way. We depended on him.

As Emily came to stand by my chair, I stood and turned her face to place a soft kiss on her lips. Her smile was magic.

"Hey, Reid," she greeted our youngest profiler, raising her broken left arm in greeting. "I've been saving space on my cast. I thought you'd have something cool to write!"

And Reid wrote this:

_"All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive."_ - Yann Martel

The look in Emily's eyes told both of us she thought it was absolutely perfect.

* * *

Emily's apartment, at least, was exactly as I remembered it. Since we'd arrived back at Quantico after five and we'd been obliged to sort a few things out with Hotch before leaving the office, there was no point in trying to clean up my place tonight. Emily drove me home, regardless, and came inside with me, holding my hand as we passed through the carnage that was my living room. She helped me put some more clothes and other essentials into a bag, while I threw away all the perished perishables in my fridge and tried not to think too hard as we left.

Her place, though, was a sanctuary - untouched and pristine. Emily held the door open and let me walk inside first before taking my bag and kissing my neck from behind. Then she went to leave my bag in her bedroom for me. I guess we did that now - shared a bedroom. We'd done it while staying in the safe house with Morgan, so of course we'd do the same thing on our own. All the same, the thought of it made my heart race.

It was over. This whole mess was over. Reid was home, Hotch had arranged for us all to have a week off to recover—longer for Reid—and I was finally going to have time to prioritise my life. Maybe I'd use the total cleanup my apartment was going to need to make some changes? Morgan was into renovation and Garcia had _said_ they were all prepared to help… It astounded me that I could think about things like that now -redoing my living room, maybe doing a little painting, finally getting that new sofa. I was smiling hugely when Emily returned from the bedroom and I pulled her into my arms right away.

Bemused, Emily's hands rested at my waist while I combed mine through her dark hair and kissed her like I hadn't seen her in months. God, you really start to appreciate your privacy after spending time in a hospital, and beyond that I'd barely had a minute away from the team since Reid's disappearance.

"Let's open a bottle of wine," I crooned, only pulling away enough to whisper the words against her lips.

Emily smirked good-humouredly. "_You_, Agent Jareau, are on pain medication."

"Spoilsport…"

"I'll tell you what," Emily offered. "I have some sparkling cider of the non-alcoholic variety. I'll pour it into a couple of champagne glasses and we can sit down and watch a movie and/or order some take-out and relax."

"A woman after my own heart," I sighed lightly, making a little fluttering gesture with my hand against my chest. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Assuming the correct answer isn't _you_…" Emily replied with a smirk. "I could go for Chinese food or maybe Indian?"

"Let's not do Chinese," I groaned. "Feels like we're on a case."

Emily laid a kiss on the end of my nose. "And we're not," she agreed. "Indian it is. Any preferences?"

I shook my head, brushing my arm against hers as I moved to sit on the couch and pulled the blanket there over me. "Surprise me."

Emily gave me a small grin as she walked into the kitchen to find the menu and the phone. I closed my eyes, smiling too.

I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes because when I opened my eyes the bottle of sparkling cider was on the table and Emily was sitting down beside me, sipping from a glass and wearing a t-shirt and the same dark silk pyjama pants she'd worn in the motel in Pennsylvania. The arm holding the glass, the one that wasn't still in a cast, bore two separate bandages. One, I knew, covered the cuts she'd made that day in the safe house, while the other, which I hadn't seen, was probably from the bathroom at the BAU, when Hotch told her she wasn't coming to Dallas with us. I reached out to extend her arm toward me and saw that the more recent one had bled through. It wasn't a significant amount of blood but I was concerned that it was bleeding at all now that several days had passed.

"Will you let me change this bandage?" I asked, running my fingertips along the edge gently.

I thought she was going to say she'd do it herself and not to worry but instead she nodded. "After dinner," she compromised. "I'm hungry. Can I get you a drink?"

"You've got a broken arm, I can pour it myself," I pointed out but Emily insisted and I held the champagne glass steady as she poured. Our eyes met as she drew back and I couldn't keep the smile from my face. It was surreal, whatever she did to me.

Dinner arrived not long after and Emily flipped through the channels until she found Despicable Me playing. She didn't ask if watching a Pixar cartoon was all right with me; she knew me well enough by now. Besides, we both needed to switch our brains off for a while after this case.

"What time is it?" I asked as I traded her a tub of korma for the butter chicken.

"Just before eight," Emily replied without checking her watch. "It only _feels_ like midnight."

"It really does…" I leaned into her side smoothly and nestled in further as her good arm came around my shoulders.

"When I get to sleep, I'm not leaving that bed for the next week."

Taking a sip of my cider, I found myself winking lazily. "Fine by me…"

Emily laughed—a quick, surprised sound, almost a gasp—and then pressed her lips against mine. When she pulled back her mouth opened like she had something important to say but nothing came out.

"You taste like butter chicken," I accused her softly.

"So do you," she teased back, relieved.

"You know, we'll have to wake up at least one day this week if we're going to sort out my apartment."

Emily sighed and tightened her arm around my shoulders. "Why not just stay here with me?"

"Forever?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's too soon for me to ask you that, isn't it? But I'm happier with you here, Jayj."

Tracing my fingers down her neck, I swallowed hard. Re-entering the room where Reid had been taken from us had sent a stab of fear through my chest. Would that fear leave if we cleaned it up, if I painted the walls or bought a new sofa? Or would my apartment always be tainted by what happened there? I thought of Elle, how much she struggled after she'd been shot in her own home. She stopped sleeping, she drank more, she was jumpy and accusatory toward anyone who tried to help. We'd made excuses for her at the time but, looking back, she'd probably have gone mad if she hadn't left the Bureau. I thought of Gideon and his place in the country. Everyone on the team had somewhere they could go to feel safe and mine had been breached.

Yet stepping into Emily's apartment had felt like coming home.

"It's not too soon if you mean it," I murmured back and in that moment, seeing her eyes light up, I knew I'd made the right decision.

"I mean it," Emily promised.

"You won't get tired of having me around?" I asked, needing to be sure it wasn't just a whim for her. "You're used to a lot of privacy. I'm going to be more trouble than your cat."

Emily stroked her thumb across my cheek and I saw tears forming in her eyes. "Jayj, I'm used to a lot of things that aren't good for me," she admitted. "I want to get better. I want to be with you."

I contemplated this seriously. "Then can we get the lock taken off your bathroom door?" I asked.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Emily's eyes at that but she blinked it away, the same action causing a tear to roll down her cheek. "I'm willing to do that for you, Jayj. Actually, I'd do anything for you. You have no idea…"

"So see someone about this, Em," I begged, running my fingertips lightly across her arm. "And make talking to me a higher priority. Let me be the judge of whether or not you need to punish yourself."

"Why do I get the feeling that if you're the judge I'm always going to be innocent," Emily sighed.

Placing a light kiss upon her lips, I replied, "None of us are _innocent_, Emily. But you're a good person who's been punishing herself long enough."

"There was this guy when I was fifteen," she admitted almost compulsively. "He was nobody— No, _I_ was nobody. He was a popular guy. He wanted me and I just wanted to be wanted… I got pregnant. I had an abortion. It started then."

"Em, no kid should have to make a decision like that," I told her emphatically. I could tell by the way she spoke that it still affected her. Her sentences were short, clipped, like she couldn't choke them out any other way.

"But, Jennifer, you had a miscarriage! I know how much you wanted a baby; I know what it did to you to lose it." Emily was crying openly now. "And I killed mine. I was a stupid kid. I didn't know what I was doing."

"Em, listen to me," I begged. "You knew exactly what you were doing. Sometimes there _is_ no right decision; whatever you choose is going to hurt. You were too young to raise a child. And I _know_ you know that you didn't kill anything, it wasn't a baby yet. It was something that could've happened and you chose not to let it, that's all."

"But it's always a baby when I think about it," she whimpered. "And I thought about it every day. I knew I'd done what I needed to but there was so much guilt… Going back to my old life, trying to pretend like nothing had happened. Matthew, he was there, he helped me do it, and he walked me back to church and told me to hold my head high…"

"Matthew… Your friend who died a few years ago," I breathed. "God, Emily, that must have been so hard."

"He saved my life and I couldn't save his. He lost his faith, started doing drugs. You know how he died… I was too ashamed to tell you it was my fault. That's when I started to get bad again."

Seeing her sitting there in front of me, I knew she believed it—that Matthew's death was entirely her fault—and I couldn't believe she'd been carrying that guilt for so long. Her hand had fallen to twist one of her bandages between her fingers and her voice was quiet, broken. As much as she knew me, part of her still expected me to blame her and that broke my heart. I knew what it was like to blame yourself for the death of someone you loved.

"Em," I tried, barely trusting my own voice. "I'm sorry you had to go through that alone… All I can say is that you'll never have to again. I'm here, Em. I'm not going anywhere. And just because I lost a child, that doesn't mean I think any less of you for having an abortion. I— I think you were brave. You were strong enough to make a decision that was in both your interest and your baby's, even though it went against everything you were raised to believe. I think that's amazing. I think _you're_ amazing." I swallowed, my throat tight as she looked up and met my eyes, finally. "And if you— If you ever wanted… Maybe one day we'll be in a position where it'll be the right time for _us_ to have a child. If you still wanted one. I know it wouldn't be the same as the one that either of us lost but—"

I was cut off by Emily's lips on mine, a desperate kiss full of hope and gratitude and relief. God, I knew that feeling. It was the relief of letting go of a secret that had been haunting you since you could remember and realising it changed _nothing_; that the world was spinning on.

We made love for the first time that night. Not there on the couch but later in her bed, which became our bed, where six years later we lay with a child between us and kissed like it was the very first time.

I'm not going to say it was all easy. I'm not going to pretend that Emily's guilt wasn't so deeply ingrained that we're still dealing with it to this day. I'm just going to say that we _are_ dealing with it. And Rosaline, my sister, my angel—if you can hear me—I love you still. I know I can't save you by saving Emily, but I know I can save Emily now because I lost you, and I am so, so grateful to you.

_Emily Dickinson wrote_: "One need not be a chamber to be haunted, one need not be a house; the brain has corridors surpassing material place."


End file.
